$*&<%£ 


IMPORTANT  ART  BOOKS 

The  Ceramic  Jlrt. 

A  Compendium  of  the  History  and  Manufacture  of  Pottery 
and  Porcelain.  By  Jennie  J.  Young.  Illustrated.  8vo. 
(Nearly  Ready) 

The  China  Hunters  Club. 

By  the  Youngest  Member.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo,  Cloth, 

$i  75- 

•Modem  Dwellings. 

Modern  Dwellings  in  Town  and  Country,  adapted  to  Amer- 
ican Wants  and  Climate.  In  a  Series  of  One  Hundred 
Original  Designs,  comprising  Cottages, Villas,  and  Mansions. 
With  a  Treatise  on  Furniture  and  Decoration.  By  H.  Hud- 
son Holly.     8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Contemporary  Jlrt  in  Europe. 

By  S.  G.  W.  Benjamin.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  Illuminated 
and  Gilt,  $3  50. 

Jlrt  Decoration  Jlpplied  to  Furniture. 

By  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth, 
Illuminated  and  Gilt,  $4  00. 

Jlrt  Education  Jlpplied  to  Industry. 

By  Colonel  George  Ward  Nichols.  Illustrated.  8vo, 
Cloth,  Illuminated  and  Gilt,  $4  00. 

^Pottery  and  Porcelain. 

Pottery  and  Porcelain  of  all  Times  and  Nations.  With 
Tables  of  Factory  and  Artists'  Marks,  for  the  Use  of  Col- 
lectors. By  William  C.  Prime,  LL.D.  Illustrated.  8vo, 
Cloth,  Gilt  Tops  and  Uncut  Edges,  in  a  Box,  $7  00. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Harper  &  Brothers  will  send  any  of  the  above  books  by  mail  {excepting  the  work  indicated 
by  an  asterisk  (*),  whose  weight  excludes  it  from  the  mail},  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of 
the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


HARPER'S  LIBRARY  OF  SELECT  NOVELS. 


'Hi- 


Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  beg  leave  to  call  attention  to  the  following  revised 
and  enlarged  list  of  their  "  Library  of  Select  Novels,"  and  to  the  reduced  prices. 

The  list  has  been  increased  in  number  and  interest  by  the  addition  of  many  works 
of  fiction  by  leading  novelists  of  the  day,  whose  productions  have  hitherto  appeared  in 
more  expensive  form  [see  numbers  493  to  595  of  accompanying  list].  The  series  has 
been  long  before  the  public,  and  its  interest  and  sterling  value  have  been  generally 
recognized.  Well-informed  readers  of  fiction  have  considered  the  appearance  of  a 
novel  in  this  series  to  be  always  a  guarantee  of  merit. 


l. 

2. 

3. 

4. 

5. 

6. 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 
15. 
1C. 
IT. 
IS. 
1'.'. 
20. 
21. 
22. 
23. 
24. 
25. 
26. 
2T. 
2S. 
29. 
30. 
31. 
32. 
33. 
34 
35. 
36. 
3T. 
38. 
39. 
40. 
41. 
4-'. 
43. 
44. 
45. 
46. 
47. 
48. 
49. 
BO. 
51. 
52. 
53. 
54. 
55. 
56. 
5T. 
58. 
59. 
60. 
61. 
62. 
63. 
64. 
65. 
66. 
67. 
OS. 
69. 
7(1. 
71. 
7'J. 
73. 
74, 
70. 


TRICE 

Pelham.    By  Bulwer $  40 

The  Disowned.     By  Bulwer 50 

Uevereux.    By  Bulwer 40 

Paul  Clifford.     By  Bulwer 40 

Eugene  Aram.     By  Bulwer 35 

The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.     By  Bulwer ...  25 

The  Czarina.     By  Mrs.  Holland 40 

Rienzi.     By  Bulwer 40 

Self-Devotion.     By  Miss  Campbell 30 

The  Nabob  at  Home 35 

Ernest  Maltravers.     By  Bulwer 35 

Alice;  or,  The  Mysteries.     By  Bulwer 35 

The  Last  of  the  Barons.    By  Bulwer 50 

Forest  Days.     By  James 40 

Adam  Brown,  the  Merchant.     By  H.  Smith 35 

Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.     By  Bulwer 20 

The  Home.     By  Miss  Bremer 35 

The  Lost  Ship.     By  Captain  Neale 4'  I 

The  False  Heir.    By  James 40 

The  Neighbors.    By  Miss  Bremer 35 

Nina.     By  Miss  Bremer 35 

The  President's  Daughters.    By  Miss  Bremer. .  20 

The  Banker's  Wife.    By  Mrs.  Gore 35 

The  Birthright.     By  Mrs.  Gore 20 

New  Sketches  of  E  very-day  Life.  ByMissBremer  35 

Arabella  Stuart.     By  James  35 

The  Grumbler.     By  Miss  Pickering 35 

The  Unloved  One.     By  Mrs.  Holland 4  I 

Jack  of  the  Mill.     By  William  Howitt 20 

The  Heretic.     By  Lajetchnikoff 40 

The  Jew.     By  Spindler 50 

Arthur.     By  Sue 40 

Chatsworth.     By  Ward 30 

The  Prairie  Bird.     By  C.  A.  Murray 50 

Amy  Herbert.    By  Miss  Sewell 35 

Rose  d'Albret.     By  James 40 

The  Triumphs  of  Time.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 40 

The  H Family.     By  Miss  Bremer 40 

The  Grandfather.     By  Miss  Pickering 30 

Arrah  Neil.     By  James 35 

The  Jilt 35 

Tales  from  the  German 25 

Arthur  Arundel.     By  H.  Smith 40 

Agincourt.     By  James 40 

The  Regent's  Daughter 35 

The  Maid  of  Honor. 25 

Safia.    By  De  Beauvoir 25 

Look  to  the  End.     By  Mrs.  Ellis 40 

The  Improvisatore.     By  Andersen 30 

The  Gambler's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Grey 40 

Veronica.     By  Zschokke 25 

Zoe.     By  Miss  Jewsbury 35 

Wyoming 30 

De  Rohan.    By  Sue 40 

Self.     By  the  Author  of  "Cecil" 50 

50 
35 
20 
35 
50 
35 


The  Smuggler.     By  James. 

The  Breach  of  Promise 

Parsonage  of  Mora.     By  Miss  Bremer. . . 
A  Chance  Medley.     By  T.  C.  Grattan. . 

The  White  Slave 

The  Bosom  Friend.     By  Mrs.  Grey 


Amaury.     By  Dumas 26 

The  Author's  Daughter.     By  Mary  Howitt 20 

Only  a  Fiddler!  &c.     By  Andersen 50 

TheWhiteboy.     By  Mrs.  Hall 40 

The  Foster-Brother.     Edited  by  Leigh  Hunt.. .  40 

Love  and  Mesmerism.     By  11.  Smith 50 

Ascanio.     By  Dumas 50 

Lady  of  Milan.     Edited  by  Mrs.  Thomson 50 

The  Citizen  of  Prague 60 

The  Royal  Favorite.     By  Mrs.  Gore 35 

The  Queen  of  Denmark.     By  Mrs.  Gore. 35 

The  Elves.  &c     ByTieck 40 

T5.  The  Step-Mother.     By  James 60 

Jessie's  Flirtat'ons 30  ' 


ruiCE 

77.  Chevalier  d'Harmental.     By  Dumas $  35 

7S.  Peers  and  Parvenus.     By  Mrs.  Gore 35 

79.  The  Commander  of  Malta.     By  Sue 25 

SO.  The  Female  Minister 25 

81.  Emilia  Wyndham.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 40 

52.  The  Bush-Kanger.     By  Charles  Rowcroft 40 

53.  The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook 20 

84.  Genevieve.    By  Lamartine 20 

S5.  Livonian  Tales 20 

8(1.  Lettice  Arnold.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 20 

87.  Father  Darcy.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 40 

SS.  Leontine.     By  Mrs.  Maberly 40 

89.  Heidelberg.     By  James 40 

90.  Lucretia.    By  Bulwer 40 

91.  Beauchamp.    By  James 40 

92.  94.  Fortescue.     By  Knowles GO 

93.  Daniel  Denison,  &c.      By  Mrs.  Holland 30 

95.  Cinq-Mars.     By  De  Vigny 40 

96.  Woman's  Trials.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 50 

97.  The  Castle  of  Ehrenstein.     By  James 35 

98.  Marriage.    By  Miss  S.  Ferrier 40 

99.  Roland  Cashel.     By  Lever.    Illustrated 75 

100.  Martins  of  Cro'  Mai'tin.     By  Lever 60 

101.  RusselU     By  James 40 

102.  A  Simple  Story.     By  Mrs.  Inchbald 30 

103.  Norman's  Bridge.     By  Mrs.  Marsh. .. . 35 

104.  Alamance 40 

105.  Margaret  Graham.     By  James. 20 

106.  The  Wayside  Cross.     By  E.  II.  Milman 20 

107.  The  Convict.     By  James 35 

10S.  Midsummer  Eve.     By  Mrs.  S-.  C.  Hall 25 

109.  Jaue  Eyre.     By  Currer  Bell 40 

110.  The  Last  of  the  Fairies.     By  James, 20 

111.  Sir  Theodore  Broughton.     By  James 40 

112.  Self-Control.     By  Mary  Brunton 50 

113.  114.  Harold.     By  Bulwer . 60 

115.  Brothers  and  Sisters.    By  Miss  Bremer 40 

116.  Gowrie.     By  James 35 

117.  A  Whim  and  its  Consequences.     By  James 40 

US.  Three  Sisters  and  Three  Fortunes.     By  G.  It 

Lewes 50 

119.  The  Discipline  of  Life 40 

120.  Thirty  Years  Since.     By  James. 50 

121.  Mary  Barton.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell. 40 

122.  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond.     By  Thackeray  20 

123.  The  Forgery.     By  James . 40 

124.  The  Midnight  Sun.     By  Miss  Bremer 20 

125.  126.  The  Caxtons.     By  Bulwer 50 

127.  Mordaunt  Hall.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 40 

128.  My  Uncle  the  Curate 40 

129.  The  Woodman.     By  James 50 

130.  The  Green  Hand.     A  "  Short  Yarn" 50 

131.  Sidonia  the  Sorceress.     By  Meinhold 50 

132.  Shirlev.     By  Currer  Bell 50 

133.  The  Ogilvies 35 

134.  Constance  Lyndsay,     By  G.  C.  H 30 

135.  Sir  Edward  Graham.     By  MisB  Sinclair 50 

136.  Hands  not  Hearts.     Bv  Miss  Wilkinson 30 

137.  The  Wilmlngtons.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 35 

13S.  Ned  Allen.     By  D.  Hannay 30 

139.  Night  and  Morning.     By  Bulwer 50 

140.  The  Maid  of  Orleans 50 

141.  Antonina.     By  Wilkie  Collins 40 

142.  Zanoni.     By  Bulwer 35 

143.  Reginald  Hastings,     By  Warbarton 35 

144.  Pride  and  Irresolution 35 

145.  The  Old  Oak  Chest.     By  James 40 

146.  Julia  Howard.     By  Mrs.  Martin  Bell 30 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.     Edited  by  Mrs.  Marsh 25 

14S.  Petticoat  Government.     By  Mrs.  Trollope 40 

149.  The  Luttrells.     By  F.  Williams 35 

150.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  R.N.     By  Hannay 49 

151.  Olive.     By  the  Author  of  "  The  Ogilvies" 35 

152.  Henry  Smeaton.     By  James 50 

153.  Time,  the  Avenger.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 33 


Hmp&r's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


PBICF. 

HARPER'S    Library    of    Select    Novels- 
Continued. 

■J  54.  The  Commissioner.     Bv  James $  60 

155.  The  Wife's  Sister.     By'Mrs.  Hubback 35 

150.  The  Gold  Worshipers 35 

157.  The  Daughter  of  Night.     By  Fullom 35 

158.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.     By  Hon.  Caroline  Norton.  35 

159.  Arthur  Conway.     By  Captain  E  II.  Milman  . .  40 
100.  The  Fate.     By  James 40 

161.  The  Lady  and  the  Priest.     By  Mrs.  Maberly. . .  35 

162.  Aims  and  Obstacles.     By  James 50 

163.  The  Tutor's  Ward 30 

164.  Florence  Sackville.     By  Mrs.  Burbury 50 

165.  Ravenscliffe.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 40 

166.  Maurice  Tiernay.     By  Lever 50 

10T.  The  Head  of  the  Family.     By  Miss  Mulock 50 

16S.  Darien.    By  Warburton 35 

160.  Falkenburg 50 

170.  The  Daltons.     By  Lever 75 

171.  Ivar;  or,  The  Skjuts-Boy.     By  Miss  Carlen.. .  35 

172.  Pequinillo.     By  James 40 

173.  Anna  Hammer.     By  Temme 40 

174.  A  Life  of  Vicissitudes.     By  James 25 

175.  Henry  Esmond.     By  Thackeray 50 

176.  177.  My  Novel.     By  Bulwer 75 

17S.  Katie  Stewart 20 

179.  Castle  Avon.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 40 

180.  Agnes  Sorel.    By  James 40 

151.  Agatha's  Husband.    By  the  Author  of  "  Olive"  35 

192.  Villette.     By  Currer  Bell 50 

1S3.  Lover's  Stratagem.     By  Miss  Carlen 35 

184.  Clouded  Happiness.     By  Countess  D'Orsay 30 

1S5.  Charles  Auchester.    A  Memorial 50 

186.  Lady  Lee's  Widowhood 40 

1S7.  Dodd  Family  Abroad.     By  Lever 60 

1SS.  Sir  Jasper  Carew.    By  Lever 50 

1S9.  Quiet  Heart 20 

190.  Aubrey.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

191.  Ticonderoga.    By  James 40 

192.  Hard  Times.    By  Dickens 25 

193.  The  Young  Husband.     By  Mrs.  Grey 85 

194.  The  Mother's  Recompense.     By  Grace  Aguilar.  50 

195.  Avillion,  &c.     By  Miss  Mulock 60 

196.  North  and  South.     By  Mis.  Gaskell 40 

197.  Country  Neighborhood.     By  Miss  Dupuy 40 

198.  Constance  Herbert.     By  Miss  Jewsbury 30 

199.  The  Heiress  of  Haughton.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 35 

200.  The  Old  Dominion.     By  James 40 

201.  John  Halifax.    By  the  Author  of  "Olive,"  &c.  50 

202.  Evelyn  Marston.     By  Mrs.  Mann 35 

203.  Fortunes  of  Glencore.     By  Lever 50 

204.  Leonora  d'Orco.    By  James 40 

205.  Nothing  New.     By  Miss  Mulock 30 

206.  The  Rose  of  Ashurst.     By  Mis.  Marsh 35 

207.  The  Athelings.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

208.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 50 

209.  My  Lady  Ludlow.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 20 

210.  211.  Gerald  Fitzgerald.     By  Lever 40 

212.  A  Life  for  a  Life.     By  Miss  Mulock 40 

213.  Sword  and  Gown.    By  Geo.  Lawrence 20 

214.  Misrepresentation.     By  Anna  H.  Drury 60 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.     By  George  Eliot 50 

216.  One  of  Them.    By  Lever 50 

217.  A  Day's  Ride.     By  Lever.     Illustrated 40 

21S.  Notice  to  Quit.     By  Wills 40 

219.  A  Strange  Story.     Blustrated 50 

220.  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson.     By  Trollope 35 

221.  Abel  Drake's  Wife.     By  John  Saunders 50 

222.  Olive  Blake's  Good  Work.     By  J.  C.  Jeaffreson.  50 

223.  The  Professor's  Lady.     Illustrated 20 

224.  Mistress  and  Maid.     By  Miss  Mulock 30 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 40 

226.  Barrington.     By  Lever 40 

227.  Sylvia's  Lovers.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 40 

228.  A  First  Friendship 25 

229.  A  Dark  Night's  Work.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 25 

230.  Countess  Gisela.     By  E.  Marlitt.     Illustrated. .  30 

231.  St.  Olave's.     By  Eliza  Tabor 40 

232.  A  Point  of  Honor 30 

233.  Live  it  Down.    By  Jeaffreson 60 

234.  Martin  Pole.     By  Saundera 30 

235.  Mary  Lyndsay.     By  Lady  Ponsonby 40 

236.  Eleanor's  Victory.     By  M.  E.  Braddon.      Ill's.  60 

237.  Rachel  Ray.     By  Trollope 35 

2:'.8.  John  Marchmont's  Legacy.      By  M.  E.  Braddon  50 

239.  Annis  Warleigh's  Fortunes.     By  Holme  Lee 50 

240.  The  Wife's  Evidence.     By  Wills 40 

241.  Barbara's  History.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. .. .  50 

242.  Cousin  Phillis 20 

243.  What  will  he  do  with  It?     Bv  Bulwer 75 

244.  The  Ladder  of  Life.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . .  25 

245.  Denis  Duval.     By  Thackeray.     Illustrated....  25 
245.  Maurice  Dering.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 25 


fEICE 

HARPER'S    Library    of    Select    Novels- 
Continued. 

247.  Margaret  Denzil's  History $  50 

248.  Quite  Alone.    By  George  Augustus  Sala.     Ill's.  60 

249.  Mattie  :  a  Stray 40 

250.  My  Brother's  Wife.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards.. .  25 

251.  Uncle  Silas.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 40 

252.  Lovel  the  Widower.     By  Thackeray 20 

253.  Miss  Mackenzie.     By  Anthony  Trollope 35 

254.  On  Guard.     By  Annie  Thomas 40 

255.  Theo  Leigh.     By  Annie  Thomas 40 

256.  Denis  Donne.     By  Annie  Thomas 40 

257.  Belial 30 

25S.  Carry's  Confession 50 

259.  Miss  Carew.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards 35 

260.  Hand  and  Glove.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards 30 

261.  Guy  Deverell.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 40 

262.  Half  a  Million  of  Money.  By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. 

Illustrated 50 

263.  The  Belton  Estate.     By  Anthony  Trollope 35 

264.  Agnes.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

205.  Walter  Goring.     By  Annie  Thomas 40 

266.  Maxwell  Drewitt.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Hiddell 50 

267.  The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.     By  Victor  Hugo.     Il- 

lustrated   50 

265.  Miss  Marjoribanks.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

209.  True  History  of  a  Little  Ragamuffin.    By  James 

Greenwood 35 

270.  Gilbert  Rugge.     By  the  Author  of  "A  First 

Friendship" 60 

271.  Sans  Merci.    By  Geo.  Lawrence 35 

272.  Phemie  Keller.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell 35 

273.  Land  at  Last.     By  Edmund  Yates 40 

274.  Felix  Holt,  the  Uadical.     By  George  Eliot 50 

275.  Bound  to  the  Wheel.     By  John  Saunders 50 

276.  All  in  the  Dark.    By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 30 

277.  Kissing  the  Rod.     By  Edmund  Yates 40 

278.  The  Kace  for  Wealth.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell. .  50 

279.  Lizzie  Lorton  of  Greyrigg.     By  Mrs.  Linton. . .  50 

250.  The  Beauclercs,  Father  and  Son.     By  C.  Clarke  25 

251.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke.     By  Charles  Lever. ...  50 
282.  Madonna  Mary.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

253.  Cradock  Nowell.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore 60 

254.  Bernthal.    From  the  German  of  L.  Miihlbach.  30 

255.  Rachel's  Secret 41) 

256.  The  Claverings.     By  Anthony  Trollope.     Ill's..  50 
287.  The  Village  on  the  Cliff.    By  Miss  Thackeray. 

Illustrated 25 

2SS.  Played  Out.     By  Annie  Thomas 40 

2S9.  Black  Sheep.     By  Edmund  Yates 40 

290.  Sowing  the  Wind.     By  E.  Lynn  Linton 35 

291.  Nora  and  Archibald  Lee 40 

292.  Raymond's  Heroine 4(? 

293.  Mr.  Wynyard's  Ward.     By  Holme  Lee 25 

294.  Alec  Forbes.     By  George  Macdonald 50 

295.  No  Man's  Friend.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 50 

296.  Called  to  Account.     By  Annie  Thomas 40 

297.  Caste 35 

29S.  The  Curate's  Discipline.     By  Mrs.  Eiloart 40 

299.  Circe.     By  Bahington  White 35 

300.  The  Tenants  of  Malory.    By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu. . .  50 

301.  Carlyon's  Year.     By  James  Payn 25 

302.  The  Waterdale  Neighbors 35 

303.  Mabel's  Progress 40 

304.  Guild  Court.     By  Geo.  Macdonald.     Ill's 40 

305.  The  Brothers'  Bet.     By  Miss  Carlen 25 

306.  Playing  for  High  Stakes.     By  Annie  Thom- 

as.    Illustrated 25 

307.  Margaret's  Engagement 25 

30S.  One  of  the  Family.     By  James  Payn 25 

309.  Five  Hundred  Pounds  Reward.    By  a  Barrister.  35 

310.  Brownlows.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

311.  Charlotte's  Inheritance.     Bv  Miss  Braddon...  35 

312.  Jeanie's  Quiet  Life.     By  Eliza  Tabor 30 

313.  Poor  Humanity.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 60 

314.  Brakespeare.     By  Geo.  A.  Lawrence.    Writh  an 

Illustration 40 

315.  A  Lost  Name.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 40 

316.  Love  or  Marriage  f    By  W.  Black 30 

317.  Dead-Sea  Fruit.  By  Miss  Braddon.  Illustrated.  50 
31S.  The  Dower  House.     By  Annie  Thomas 35 

319.  The  Bramleighs  of  Bishop's  Folly.     By  Lever. 

Illustrated 50 

320.  Mildred.     By  Georgiana  M.  Craik CO 

321.  Nature's   Nobleman.     By  the  Author  of  "Ba- 

ch el' 8  Secret" 35 

322.  Kathleen.     By  the  Author  of  "  Raymond's  He- 

roine."   50 

323.  That  Boy  of  Norcott's.     By  Charles  Lever.    Il- 

lustrated   25 

324.  In  Silk  Attire.     By  W.  Black 35 

325.  Hetty.     By  Henry  Kingsley 20 

326.  False  Colors.     By  Annie  Thomas 40 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


50 


40 


ruicE 
HARPER'S  Library  of  Select  Novels- 
Continued. 

32T.  Mcta's  Faith.    By  Eliza  Tabor $  35 

32S.  Found  Dead.     By  James  Payn 25 

32!).  Wrecked  iu  Port.     By  Edmund  Yutes 35 

330.  The  Minister's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

331.  A  Beggar  on  Horseback.     By  James  Payn 35 

332.  Kitty.     By  M.  Betham  Edwards 35 

333.  Only  Herself.     By  Annie  Thomas 35 

334.  Hirell.     By  John  Saunders 40 

335.  Under  Foot.     By  Alton  Clyde.      Illustrated...  40 
330.  So  Runs  the  World  Away.    By  Mrs.  A.  O.  Steele.  35 

337.  Baffled.     By  Julia  Goddard.      Illustrated 50 

33S.  Beneath  the  Wheels 50 

339.  Stern  Necessity.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 40 

340.  Gwendoline's  Harvest.     By  James  Bayu 25 

341.  Kilmeny.     By  William  Black 35 

342.  John :  A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 25 

343.  True  to  Herself.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 

344.  Veronica.   By  the  Author  of  "Mabel's  Progress" 

345.  A  Dangerous  Guest.     By  the  Author  of  "Gil- 

bert Rugge" 

346.  Estelle  Russell 

347.  The  Heir  Expectant.    By  the  Author  of  "  Ray- 

mond's Heroine" 

343.  Which  is  the  Heroine  ? 40 

349.  The  Vivian  Romance.     By  Mortimer  Collins. .  35 

350.  In  Duty  Bound.     Illustrated 35 

351.  The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers.    By  A. 

Trollope 60 

352.  From  Thistles— Grapes  ?    By  Mrs.  Eiloart 35 

353.  A  Siren.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 40 

354.  Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite.      By 

Anthony  Trollope.      Illustrated 35 

355.  Earl's  Dene.     By  R.  E.  Francillon 50 

35S.  Daisy  Nichol.     By  Lady  Hardy 35 

357.  Bred  in  the  Bone.     By  James  Payn.     Ill's....  40 

35S.  Fenton's  Quest.   By  MissBraddon.  Illustrated. .  50 

359.  Monarch  of  .Mincing-Lane.   By  W.  Black.   Ill's.  50 

360.  A  Life's  Assize.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell 40 

361.  Anteros.  By  the  Author  of  "Guy  Livingstone."  40 

362.  Her  Lord  and  Master.     By  Mrs.  Ross  Church. .  30 

363.  Won— Not  Wooed.     By  James  Payn 35 

364.  For  Lack  of  Gold.     By  Charles  Gibbon 35 

305.  Anne  Furness 50 

366.  A  Daughter  of  Heth.     By  W.  Black 35 

307.  Durntou  Abbey.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 40 

365.  Joshua  Marvel.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon 40 

309.  Lovels  of  Arden.     By  M.  E.  Braddon.      Ill's.  50 

370.  Fair  to  See.     By  L.  W.  M.  Lockhart 40 

371.  Cecil's  Tryst.     By  James  Payn 30 

372.  Patty.     By  Katharine  S.  Macquoid 50 

373.  Maud  Mohan.     By  Annie  Thomas 25 

374.  Grif.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon 35 

375.  A  Bridge  of  Glas-;.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 30 

376.  Albert  Lunel.     By  Lord  Brougham 50 

377.  A  Good  Investment.      By  Wm.  Flagg.     Ill's..  35 

S73.  A  Golden  Sorrow.     By  Mrs.  Cashel  lioey 40 

379.  Ombra.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 


350.  Hope  Deferred.     By  Eliza  F.  Pollard 

351.  The  Maid  of  Sker.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore 50 

382.  For  the  King.     By  Charles  Gibbon 30 

383.  A  Girl's  Romance,  and  Other  Tales.     By  F.  W. 

Robinson 30 

384  Dr.  Wainwright's  Patient.    By  Edmund  Yates.  35 

385.   A  Passion  in  Tatters.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

SS6.   A  Woman's  Vengeance.     Bv  Jame3  Payn 35 

887.   Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton.  ByW.Black.  50 

358.  To  the  Bitter  End.   By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

359.  Robin  Gray.    By  Charles  Gibbon 35 

390.  Godolphin.     Bv  Bulwer 35 

391.  Leila.     By  Bulwer.     Illustrated 25 

392.  Kenelm  Chillingly.     By  Lord  Lytton.     Ill's..  5" 

393.  The  Hour  and  the  Man.   By  Harriet  Martineau  50 

394.  Murphy's  Master.     By  James  Payn 20 

395.  The  New  Magdalen.     By  Wilkie  Collins 30 

396.  '"He  Cometh  Not,'   She    Said."      By  Annie 

Thomas 30 

39T.  Innocent.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.     Illustrated 50 

398.  Too  Soon.     By  Mrs.  Macquoid 30 

399.  Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  By  Miss  Braddon.  Ill's.  50 

400.  A  Simpleton.     By  Charles  Reade 35 

401.  The  Two  Widows.     By  Annie  Thomas 25 

402.  Joseph  the  Jew.     By  Miss  V.  W.  Johnson 40 

403.  Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune.   By  F.  W.  Robinson.  40 

404.  A  Princess  of  Thnle.     ByW.Black 

405.  Lottie  Darling.    By  J.  C.  Jeaffreson 

406.  The  Bine  Ribbon.     By  Eliza  Tabor 

40T.  Harry  Heathcote  of  GangoiL     By  A.  Trollope 

Illustrated 

403.  Publicans  and  Sinners.     By  Miss  Braddon... 
409.  Colonel  Dacre.     By  the  Author  of  "Caste".. . 


I'BICE 

HARPER'S  Library   of  Select  Novels- 
Continued. 

410.  Through  Fire  and  Water.  By  Frederick  Talbot. 

Illustrated $  20 

411.  Lady  Anna.     By  Anthony  Trollope 30 

412.  Taken  at  the  Flood.     By  Miss  Braddon 50 

413.  At  Her  Mercy.     By  James  Payn 30 

414.  Ninety-Three.     By  Victor  Hugo..      Ill's 25 

415.  For  Love  and  Life.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 5l 

416.  Doctor  Thome.     By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

417.  The  Best  of  Husbauds.     By  James  Payn 25 

41S.  Sylvia's  Choice.     By  Georgiana  M.  Craik....  30 

419.  A  Sack  of  Gold.     By  Miss  V.  W.  Johnson c5 

4'20.  Squire  Arden.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

421.  Lorna  Dooue.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore.      Ill's...  60 

422.  The  Treasure  Hunters.  By  Geo.ManvilleFenn.  25 

423.  Lost  for  Love.     By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon.    Ill's.  50 

424.  Jack's  Sister.     By  Miss  Dora  Havers 50 

425.  Aileen  Ferrers.     By  Susan  Morley 30 

426.  The  Love  that  Lived.     By  Mrs.  Eiloart 30 

427.  Iu  Honor  Bound.     By  Charles  Gibbon 35 

42S.  Jessie  Trim.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon 35 

429.  Hagarene.     By  George  A.  Lawrence 35 

430.  Old  Myddelton's  Money.     By  Mary  Cecil  Hay.  25 

431.  At  the  Sign  of  the  Silver  Flagon.    By  Farjeon..  25 

432.  A  Strange  World.     By  Miss  Braddon 40 

433.  Hope  Meredith.     By  Eliza  Tabor 35 

434.  The  Maid  of  Killeena.     By  William  Black.. ..  40 

435.  The  Blossoming  of  an  Aloe.     By  Mrs.  Hoey. . .  30 

436.  Safely  Married.    By  the  Author  of  "Caste.". .  25 

437.  The  Story  of  Valentine  and  his  Brother.    By 

Mrs.  Oliphant 60 

43S.  Our  Detachment.     By  Katharine  King. 35 

439.  Love's  Victory.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon 20 

410.  Alice  Lorraine.     By  It.  D.  Blackmore 50 

441.  Walter's  Word.     By  James  Payn 50 " 

442.  Playing  the  Mischief.     By  J.  W.  De  Forest...  Go 

443.  The  Lady  Superior.     By  Eliza  F.  Pollard 35 

444.  Iseulte.     By  the  Author  of  "  Vera,"  "  Hotel  du 

Petit  St.  Jean,"  &c 30 

445.  Eglantine.    By  Eliza  Tabor 40 

446.  Ward  or  Wife  1    Illustrated 25 

447.  Jean.      By  Mrs.  Newman 35 

44S.  The  Calderwood  Secret.  By  Miss  V.W.  Johnson  40 

449.  Hugh  Melton.    By  Katharine  King.     Ill's 25 

450.  Healey. 35 

451.  Hostages  to  Fortune.    By  Miss  Braddon.   Ill's.  50 

452.  The  Queen  of  Connaught 35 

453.  Off  the  Roll.     By  Katharine  King 60 

454.  Halves.     By  James  Payn 30 

455.  The  Squire's  Legacy.     By  Mary  Cecil  Hay. . .  25 

456.  Victor  and  Vanquished.     By  Mary  Cecil  Hay.  25 

457.  Owen  G Wynne's  Great  Work.  By  Lady  Augusta 

Noel 30 

45S.  His  Natural  Life.     By  Marcus  Clarke 50 

459.  The  Curate  in  Charge.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

460.  Pausanias  the  Spartan.     By  Lord  Lytton 25 

461.  Dead  Men's  Shoes.     By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. .  40 

462.  The  Dilemma.    By  the  Author  of  "  The  Battle 

of  Dorking." 50 

463.  Hidden  Perils.     By  Mary  Cecil  Hay 25 

464.  Cripps,  the  Carrier.  By  R.  D.  Blackmore.  Ill's.  50 

465.  Rose  Turquand.     By  Ellice  Hopkins 35 

466.  As  Long  as  She  Lived.     By  F.  W.  Robinson. . .  50 

467.  Israel  Mort,  Overman.     By  John  Saunders 50 

463.  Phoebe,  Junior.   By  Mrs.  Oliphant 35 

469.  A  Long  Time  Ago.     By  Meta  Orred 25 

470.  The  Laurel  Bush.    By  the  Author  of  "John 

Halifax,  Gentleman."     Illustrated 25 

471.  Miss    Nancy's  Pilgrimage.      By  Virginia   W. 

Johnson 40 

472.  The  Arundel  Motto.      By  Mary  Cecil  Hay 25 

473.  Azalea.     By  Cecil  Clayton 30 

474.  Daniel  Deronda.     By  George  Eliot 50 

475.  The  Sun-Maid.    By  the  Author  of  "Artiste.".  35 

476.  Nora's  Love  Test.     By  Mary  Cecil  Hay 25 

477.  Joshua  Haggard's  Daughter.     By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon.     Illustrated 50 

478.  Madcap  Violet.     By  William  Black 50 

479.  From  Dreams  to  Waking.    By  E.  Lynn  Linton.  20 

450.  The  Duchess  of  Hosemary  Lane.  By  B.  L.  Farjeon.  35 

451.  Anne  Warwick.     By  Georgiana  M.  Craik 25 

452.  Weavers  and  Weft.     By  Miss  Braddon 25 

453.  The  Golden    Butterfly.      By  the   Authors   of 

"  When  the  Ship  Comes  Ilnim-,"  <fcc 40 

454.  Juliet's  Guardian.  By  Mrs.  II.  Lovett  Cameron. 

Illustrated 40 

455.  Mar's  White  Witch.     By  G.  Douglas .....  50 

456.  Heaps  of  Money.     By  W.  E.  Nor;  is 25 

487.  The  American  Senator.    Bv  Anthony  Trollope.      50 

4SS.  Mrs.  Arthur.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 40 

4S9.  Winstowe.     By  Mrs.  Leith-Adams 25 

490.  Marjorie  Bruce' s  Lovers.     By  Mary  Patrick. . .      25 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


HARPER'S    Library    of    Select    Novels- 
Continued. 

491.  Romola.     By  George  Eliot.     Illustrated $  50 

492.  Carita.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant.     Illustrated 50 

493.  Middlemarch.    By  George  Eliot T5 

494.  For  Her  Sake.     By  F.  W.  Robinson.     Ill's CO 

405.  Second-Cousin  Sarali.  By  F.W.  Robinson.  Ill's..  50 

496.  Little  Kate  Kirby.    By  F.  W.  Robinson.     Ill's.  50 

497.  Luttrell  of  Arran.     By  Charles  Lever 60 

495.  Lord  Kilgobbin.     By  Charles  Lever.     Ill's 50 

490.  Tony  Butler.     By  Charles  Lever 60 

500.  Breaking  a  Butterfly.  By  George  A.  Lawrence. 

Illustrated 35 

501.  Mrs.  Lirriper'a  Legacy.     By  Charles  Dickens..  10 

502.  The  Mystery  of  Edwin   Urood.     By  Charles 

Dickens.      Illustrated 25 

503.  The  Parisians.     By  Bulwer.     Illustrated 60 

504.  Stone  Edge.     With  an  Illustration 20 

505.  The  Rule  of  the  Monk.     By  Garibaldi 30 

506.  Inside.     By  VV.  M.  Baker.     Illustrated 75 

507.  Carter  Quarterman.  By  W.  M.  Baker.  111'.-..  00 
50S.  Three  Feathers.     By  Win.  Black.     Ill's 50 

509.  Bound  to  John  Company.     By  Miss  Braddon. 

Illustrated B0 

510.  Birds  of  Prey.    By  Miss  Braddon.    Illustrated.  50 

511.  The  Prey  of  the  Gods.     By  Mrs.  Ross  Church.  30 

512.  The  Woman  in  White.  By  Wilkie  Collins.  Ill's.  CO 

513.  The  Two  Destinies.      By  Wilkie  Collins.     Ill's.  35 

514.  The  Law  and  the  Lady.     By  Wilkie  Collins. 

Illustrated 50 

515.  Poor  Miss  Finch.     By  Wilkie  Collins.     Ill's...  60 

516.  No  Name.     By  Wilkie  Collins.     Illustrated...  60 

517.  The  Moonstone.    By  Wilkie  Collins.    Ill's CO 

51S.  Man  and  Wife.     By  Wilkie  Collins.     Ill's 60 

519.  Armadale.     By  Wilkie  Collins.     Illustrated. . .  60 

520.  My  Daughter  Elinor.    By  Frank  Lee  Benediet.  SO 

521.  John  Worthington's  Name.    By  F.  LeelSenedict  75 

522.  Miss  Dorothy's  Charge.     By  F.  Lee  Benedict. .  75 

523.  Miss  Van  Kortland.     By  Frank  Lee  Benedict. .  Co 

524.  St.  Simon's  Niece.     By  Frank  Lee  Benedict. ..  CO 

525.  Mr.  Vaughan's  Heir.  By  Frank  Lee  Benedict.  75 
526    Captain  Brand.      By  II.  A.  Wise.    Illustrated.  75 

527.  Sooner  or  Later.     By  Shirley  Brooks.     Ill's...  SO 

528.  The  Gordian  Knot.     By  Shirley  Brooks.    With 

an  Illustration 50 

529.  The  Silver  Cord.     By  Shirley  Brooks.     Ill's...  75 

530.  Cord  and  Creese.    By  James  De  Mille.    Ill's...  CO 

531.  The  Living  Link.     By  James  De  Mille.     Ill's..  CO 

532.  The  American  Baron.   By  James  De  Mille.  Ill's.  50 

533.  The  Cryptogram.    By  James  De  Mille.   Ill's...  75 

534.  The  King  of  No-Land.   By  B.  L.  Farjeon.  Ill's.  25 

535.  An  Island  Pearl.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon.     Ill's 30 

536.  Blade-o' -Grass.    By  B.  L.  Farjeon.    Illustrated.  30 

537.  Bread-and-Clieese  and  Kisses.     By  B.  L.  Far- 

jeon.    Illustrated 35 

538.  Golden  Grain.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon.    Illustrated.  35 

539.  London's  Heart.   By  B.  L.  Farjeon.    Illustrated.  CO 

540.  Shadows  on  the  Snow.    By  B.  L.  Farjeon.  Ill's.  30 

541.  Not  Dead  Yet.     By  Jobn  Cordy  Jeaffreson 6.1 

542.  The  Island  Neighbors.     By  Mrs.  A.  B.  Black. 

well.     Illustrated CO 

543.  The  Woman's  Kingdom.  By  Miss  Mulock.  Ill's.  60 

544.  Hannah.     By  Miss  Mulock.    With  Three  Ill's. .  35 

545.  A  Brave  Lady.  Bv  Miss  Mulock.  Illustrated.  CO 
516.  My  Mother  audi.  By  Miss  Mulock.  Illustrated.  40 
547.  Chronicles  of  Carlingford.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant  60 
54S.  A  Son  of  the  Soil.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

549.  The  Perpetual  Curate.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

550.  Old  Kensington.     By  Miss  Thackeray.     Ill's..  60 

551.  Miss  Angel.     By  Miss  Thackeray.    Illustrated.  50 

552.  Miss  Thackeray's  Miscellaneous  Writings.  II' d.  90 

553.  Vanity  Fair.  By  W.  M.Thackeray.  Illustrated.  SO 

554.  The  History  of'l'endennis.     By  W.  M.  Thack- 

eray.    Illustrated 75 

555.  The  Virginians.     By  W.  M.  Thackeray.    Ill's..  !0 
558.  The  Newcomes.    By  W.  M.  Thackeray.    Ill's..  90 
557.  The  Adventures  of  rhilip.     By  W.  M.  Thack- 
eray.    Illustrated CO 


PUCB 

HARPER'S  Library  of  Select  Novels- 
Continued. 

55S.  Henry  Esmond,  and  Lovel  the  Widower.     By 

W.  M.  Thackeray.     Illustrated $  60 

559.  Put  Yourself  in  His  Plac.    By  Charles  Reade. 

Illustrated 50 

560.  A  Terrible  Temptation.   By  Charles  Reade.  Ill's  40 

561.  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.  By  Charles  Reade.  50 

562.  The  Wandering  Heir.    By  Charles  Reade.    Ill's.  25 

563.  Hard  Cash.     By  Charles  Reade.     Illustrated..  50 

564.  Griffith  Gaunt.    By  Charles  Reade.    Ill's 40 

505.  It   is   Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.     By  Charles 

Reade 50 

506.  Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long.     By  Charles 

Reade.     With  an  Illustration 35 

567.  Foul  Play.      By  Charles  Reade 35 

568.  White  Lies.      By  Charles  Reade 40 

569.  Peg  Woffingtou,  Christie  Johnstone,  and  Other 

Stories.     By  Charles  Reade 50 

570.  A  Woman-Hater.     By  Charles  Reade.     With 

Two  Illustrations CO 

571.  Orley  Farm.     By  Anthony  Trollope.     Ill's SO 

572.  The  Vicar  of  Bullhampton.     By  Anthony  Trol- 

lope.    Illustrated SO 

573.  The  Way  We  Live  Now.     By  Anthony  Trol- 

lope.    Illustrated 90 

574.  Phineas  Finn.     By  Anthony  Trollope.      Ill's..  75 

575.  Phineas  Redux.  By  Anthony  Trollope.  Ill's..  75 
57G.  Ralph  the  Heir.  By  Anthony  Trollope.  Ill's.  75 
577.  The  Eustace  Diamonds.  By  Anthony  Trollope.  SO 
57S.  The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset.     By  Anthony 

Trollope.     Illustrated 90 

579.  The  Golden  Lion  of  Granpere.      By  Anthony 

Trollope.     Illustrated 40 

550.  The  Prime  Minister.     By  Anthony  Trollope. . .  CO 

551.  Can  You  Forgive   Her?     By  Anthony  Trol- 

lope.    Illustrated SO 

552.  He  Knew  He  Was  Right.     By  Anthony  Trol- 

lope.    Illustrated SO 

553.  The  Small  House  at  Allingtou.     By  Anthony 

Trollope.     Illustrated 75 

584.  The  Sacristan's  Household.    By  Mrs.  F.  E.  Trol- 
lope.    Illustrated 50 

555.  Lindisfarn  Chafe.     By  T.  A.  Trollope CO 

556.  Hidden  Sin.     Illustrated CO 

557.  My  Enemy's  Daughter.     By  Justin  McCarthy. 

Illustrated 50 

5SS.  My  Husband's  Crime.     By  M.  R.  Housekeeper. 

Illustrated 50 

5S9.  Stretton.    By  Henry  Kingsley.    With  an  Illus- 
tration   35 

590.  Ship  Ahov  !    By  G.  M.  Fenn.     Illustrated 35 

591.  Debenhafn'sVow.   By  Amelia  B.  Edwards.  Ill's  50 

592.  Wives  and  Daughters.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell.     Il- 

lustrated    CO 

593.  Recollections  of  Eton.     Illustrated 35 

5»4.  Under  the  Ban.    By  M.  l'Abbe  *  *  * CO 

595.  The  Rape  of  the  Gamp.      By  C.  W.  Mason. 

Illustrated T5 

59G.  Erema;  or,  My  Father's  Sin.    By  R.  D.  Black- 
more 50 

597.  What  He  Cost  Her.     By  James  Payn 40 

59S.  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly.     By  William 

Black 50 

599.  A  Young  Wife's  Story.     By  Harriette  Bowra..  25 

600.  A  Jewel  of  a  Girl.   By  the  Author  of  "  Queenie."  35 

601.  An  Open  Verdict.    "By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. ..  35 

602.  A  Modern  Minister.     Vol.  I.     Illustrated 35 

603.  A  Modern  Minister.     Vol.  II.     (Ai  Press.) 

604.  Young  Musgrave.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 40 

605.  Two  Tales  of  Married  Life.     By  Georgiana  M. 

Craik  and  M.  C.  Stirling 30 

6n6.  The  Last  of  the  Haddons.     By  Mrs.  Newman.  25 

607.  The  Wreck  of  the  "  Grosvenpr" 3ft 

60S.  By  Proxy.     By  James  Payn 85 

609.  By   Celia's   Arbor.      By   Walter   Besant   and 

James  Rice 50 

610.  Deceivers  Ever.     Bv  Mrs.  Cameron 30 

611.  Less  Black  than  We're  Painted.  By  James  Payn,  35 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 


A  Chapter  in  tie  Annals  of  the  Sujta  of  IA 


By  MRS.  OLIPHANT 


AUTHOR   OF 


"THE  CHRONICLES  OF  CARLINGFORD"   "AGNES"   "A  SON  OF  THE  SOIL"  "CARITA' 
"FOR  LOVE  AND  LIFE"   "MISS   MARJORIBANKS"   "INNOCENT"  &c. 


"A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 
Forward,  not  permanent,  sweet,  not  lasting 
The  perfume  and  suppliance  of  a  minute ; 

•  No  more." 


—  "the  primrose  path  of  dalliance!" 

Hamlet,  Act  I.,  Scene  III. 


t^c£^ry, 


NEW     Y O  R K 

HARPER    &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE 
1S78 


By  Mrs.  Oliphant. 


A  GNES.     A  Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

A  SON   OF    THE    SOIL.     A   Novel.     8vo,  Cloth, 
$1  00 ;  Paper,  50  cents. 

BROWNLOWS.    A  Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

CAPITA.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

CHRONICLES  OF  CARLINGFORD.     A   Novel. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $1  10  ;  Paper,  60  cents. 

FOR  LOVE  AND   LIFE.    A   Novel.     8vo,  Paper, 

50  cents. 
INNOCENT.     A  Tale  of  Modern  Life.     Illustrated. 

8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

JOHN.    A  Love  Story.     8vo,  Paper,  25  cents. 

KATIE  STEWART.    A  True   Story.     8vo,  Paper, 

20  cents. 
LUCY  CROFTON.    A  Novel.     1 21110,  Cloth, $1  50. 

MADONNA  MARY.     A  Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cts. 
MISS    MARJORIBANKS.    A   Novel.    8vo,  Paper, 

50  cents. 
MRS.  ARTHUR.    A  Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  40  cents. 
OMBRA .     A  Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

PHCEBE,  JUNIOR.     A   Last   Chronicle   of  Carling- 

ford.     8vo,  Paper,  35  cents. 
SQUIRE  ARDEN.     A  Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


THE  ATHELINGS ;  or,  The  Three  Gifts.  A 
Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE.  A  Novel.  Svo, 
Paper,  20  cents. 

THE  DAYS  OF  MY  LIFE;  An  Autobiography. 
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TO 

THE   VERY  REVEREND   THE  PRINCIPAL: 

THE  EIGHT   REVEREND 

THE    MODERATOR: 

ONE  OF  THE  CHIEF  LIVING   ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  FIFE: 

FKOM 
THE   HUMBLE  CHRONICLER  OF  THE   KINGDOM 

©retting ! 

JUNE,  1S7S. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2010  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


http://www.archive.org/details/primrosepathchapOOolip 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  old  house  of  Earl's-hall  stands  on  a 
long  strip  of  land  between  two  rivers,  in  that 
county  affectionately  known  to  its  inhabitants  as 
the  kingdom  of  Fife.  It  is  not  a  great  house, 
but  neither  is  it  an  insignificant  one,  though  fort- 
une has  brought  the  family  low  which  once  held 
some  primitive  state  in  it :  a  quaint,  gray  dwell- 
ing, not  formed  for  modern  wants.  To  make 
an  ordinary  dining-room  and  drawing-room  in 
it  would  be  as  impossible  as  to  content  an  ordi- 
nary band  of  modern  servants  with  the  accom- 
modation provided  in  the  low  vaulted  chambers 
below,  which  are  all  the  old  house  possesses  in 
the  way  of  kitchen  or  servants'  hall ;  but  when 
you  see  its  gray  gable  and  turret  projecting  from 
among  a  cloud  of  trees,  the  old  Scotch  manor- 
house  looks  as  imposing  as  any  castle.  The  belt 
of  wood  round  the  little  park,  or  what  in  Scotland 
is  called  "the  policy,"  is  old  too,  and  as  well- 
grown  as  the  winds  will  permit.  .  It  is  true  that 
a  great  turnip-field,  reaching  up  to  the  walls  of 
the  garden  which  lies  on  the  southern  side,  has 
been  thrust  in  between  the  house  and  the  wood, 
and  the  policy  is  as  ragged  as  a  poor  pony  badly 
groomed  and  badly  fed  ;  but  these  are  imperfec- 
tions which  a  little  money  could  remedy  very 
quickly.  The  house  itself  is  very  peculiar  in  form, 
and  consisted  once  of  two  buildings  built  on  two 
sides  of  a  court,  and  united  by  a  mere  screen  of 
wall,  in  which  is  an  arched  door-way  surmount- 
ed by  a  coat  of  arms.  Probably,  however,  the 
second  of  these  buildings,  which  has  now  fallen 
into  ruins,  was  a  modern  addition,  the  other  be- 
ing the  ancient  body  of  the  house.  It  is  of  gray 
stone,  three  stories  high,  with  a  round  turret  at 
the  western  side,  which  rises  higher  than  the 
rest  by  one  flight  of  the  old  winding  stone  stair- 
case, and  has  a  little  square  battlement  and  ter- 
race at  the  top,  from  which  you  look  abroad  upon 
a  wide  landscape,  not  beautiful, perhaps,  but  broad 
and  breezy,  rich  fields  and  low  hills  and  vacant 
sea.  To  the  right  lies  the  village,  with  its  church 
built  upon  a  knoll  in  the  rich  plain,  and  its  houses, 
gray,  red,  and  blue,  as  the  topping  of  chill  bluish 
slate  or  rough -red  generous  tile  predominates, 
clinging  about  the  little  height.  Cornfields  wave 
and  nestle  round  this  centre  of  rural  population, 
and  behind  are  the  hills  of  Forfarshire,  and  a 
farther  line  of  the  Grampians,  half  seen  among 
the  mists.  The  softly  swelling  heights  of  the 
Lomonds  lie  in  the  nearer  distance,  and  in  the 


foreground  the  Eden  sweeps  darkly  blue,  with  a 
line  of  breakers  showing  the  bar  at  its  mouth, 
toward  the  low  sand-hills  and  stormy  waters  of 
St.  Andrews  Bay,  a  place  in  which  no  ship  likes 
to  find  itself;  while  over  the  low  sweep  of  the 
sands  St.  Andrews  itself  stands  misty  and  fine, 
its  long  line  of  cliff  and  tower  and  piled  houses 
ending  in  the  jagged  edge  of  the  ruined  castle, 
and  the  tall  mystery  of  St.  Rule's — the  square 
tower  which  baffles  archaeology.  Such  is  the 
scene,  rural  and  fresh  and  green,  with  a  some- 
what chill  tone  of  color,  and  many  a  token  of 
the  winds  in  the  bare  anatomy  and  shivering 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  with  no  great  amount 
of  beauty  to  boast  of:  yet  ever  full  of  attraction 
and  suggestion,  as  such  a  width  of  firmament, 
such  a  great  circle  of  horizon,  such  variety  of  sea 
and  land  and  hills  and  towers  must  ever  be. 

Through  the  door-way  in  the  wall,  which  is 
rich  with  rough  but  effective  ornamentation, 
boldly  cut  string-courses,  which  look  as  if  there 
might  once  have  been  some  kind  of  fortification 
to  be  supported,  you  enter  a  little  court,  from 
which  the  house  opens — a  square  court,  turfed 
and  green,  and  containing  a  well  and  an  old 
thorn-tree.  The  ruined  portion  of  the  house, 
roofless  and  mouldering,  is  on  the  east  side  ;  the 
habitable  part  on  the  west,  an  oblong  block  of 
building ;  and  at  the  well,  on  the  day  when  this 
history  opens,  two  figures,  one  old,  one  young, 
both  full  in  the  gleam  of  westering  sunshine 
which  breaks  over  the  wall.  One- half  of  the 
court  is  in  deepest  shade,  but  this  all  bright,  so 
bright  that  the  girl  shades  her  eyes  with  one 
hand,  while  with  the  other  she  pumps  water  into 
the  old  woman's  pail,  who  stands  with  arms  a-kim- 
bo, shaking  her  head,  and  giving  vent  to  that  mur- 
mur of  rembnstrative  disapproval,  inarticulate 
yet  very  expressive,  which  is  made  by  the  tongue 
against  the  palate. 

"  Tt-tt-tt,"  says  old  Bell.  "  If  ever  there  was 
a  masterful  miss  and  an  ill-willy,  and  ane  that 
will  have  her  ain  way!" 

"How  can  I  be  masterful  and  a  miss  too?" 
said  the  girl,  laughing.  Her  arm  grew  tired, 
however,  with  the  pumping,  and  she  left  off  be- 
fore the  vessel  was  half  full.  ' '  There ! "  she  said, 
"I'll  cry  on  Jeanie  to  do  the  rest  for  you.  I'm 
tired  now." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Margret!  but  you  need  not  cry 
upon  Jeanie.  I  am  fit  enough,  though  I'm  old, 
to  do  that  much  for  mysel'." 

"It's  the  sun  has  got  into  my  eyes,"  said  the 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


girl ;  and  she  strayed  away  into  the  shade,  and 
seated  herself  upon  a  heavy  old  wooden  chair 
that  had  been  placed  close  to  the  door.  The 
sun  would  not  have  seemed  unbearably  hot  to  any 
one  accustomed  to  his  warmer  sway ;  but  Mar- 
garet Leslie  was  not  used  to  overmuch  sunshine, 
and  what  she  called  the  glare  fatigued  her.  Such 
a  mild  glare  as  it  was — a  suffusion  of  soft  light, 
more  regretful  at  giving  so  little  than  triumphant 
in  delight  over  its  universal  victory!  It  had 
been  rainy  weather,  and  the  light  had  a  wistful 
suddenness  in  it,  like  a  smile  in  wet  eyes.  Mar- 
garet withdrew  into  the  shade.  She  was  a  girl 
of  seventeen  or  so,  the  only  daughter  of  this  old 
gray  house,  the  only  blossom  of  youth  about  it 
except  Jeanie  in  the  kitchen,  whom  she  did  not 
"cry  on"  to  help  old  Bell — not  so  much  because 
old  Bell  declined  the  help,  but  because  she  her- 
self forgot  next  moment  all  about  it.  Margaret 
had  no  idea  that  to  say  she  would  "cry  upon" 
Jeanie  was  not  the  best  English  in  the  world. 
She  was  as  entirely  and  honestly  of  the  soil  as 
her  maid  was ;  a  little  more  careful,  perhaps,  of 
her  dialect ;  not  "broad  "  indeed,  in  her  use  of 
the  vernacular,  because  of  the  old  father  up- 
stairs, but  with  an  accent  which  would  make  a 
young  lady  of  Fife  of  the  present  day  shiver,  and 
a  proud  and  determined  aversion  to  the  "high 
English  "  which  only  disapproving  visitors  ever 
spoke — ladies  who  looked  with  alarm  upon  her, 
suggesting  schools  and  governesses.  Nowhere 
could  there  have  been  found  a  more  utterly  neg- 
lected girl  than  Margaret,  whom  nobody,  except 
old  Bell,  had  ever  taken  any  care  of,  all  her  life. 
Bell  had  been  very  careful  of  her — had  kept  her 
feet  warm  and  her  head  cool,  had  seen  that  she 
ate  her  porridge  all  the  mornings  of  her  child- 
hood, and  that  there  were  no  holes  in  her  stock- 
ings ;  but  what  more  could  Bell  do  ?  She  dis- 
coursed her  young  mistress  continually,  putting 
all  kinds  of  homely  wisdom  into  her  head ;  but 
she  could  not  teach  her  French,  or  to  play  the 
"piany,"  which  were  the  only  accomplishments 
of  which  Bell  was  even  aware. 

"It's  no  my  fault,"  the  old  woman  said,  put- 
ting out  her  open  palms  with  a  natural  gesture 
of  mild  despair.  "  If  I  were  to  speak  till  I  was 
hoarse  (and  so  I  have),  what  woidd  that  do  to 
mend  the  maitter?  The  maister  he  turns  a 
deaf  ear,  though  I  was  to  charm  ever  so  wisely ; 
and  Miss  Margret  hersel'  —  oh,  Miss  Margret 
hersel',  if  she  could  learn  a'  that  a  young  leddy 
should,  in  twa  minutes  by  the  clock,  it  might  be 
done;  but  hold  her  to  one  thing  I  canna  —  it 
wants  somebody  with  more  authority  than  me ; 
and  a  bonny  creature  like  that,  and  with  a  fort- 
une coming  till  her  from  her  mother!  How  is 
she  ever  to  learn  the  piany,  or  a  word  but  broad 
Scots  out  here?" 

Little  Margaret  cared  for  such  lamentations. 
She  sat  softly  swinging  the  heavy  chair  against 
the  wall,  which  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do. 
She  had  not  the  aspect  or  physiognomy  adapted 
for  a  hoyden ;  her  features  were  small  and  re- 
fined ;  her  color  more  pale  than  warm,  lighted 
up  by  evanescent  rose-flushes,  but  never  brilliant; 
her  hair  singularly  fine  in  texture  and  abundant 
in  quantity,  but  of  no  tint  more  pronounced  than 
brown,  the  most  ordinary  and  commonplace  of 
shades.  Her  face  was  a  cloudy,  shadowy  little 
face,  but  possessed  by  a  smile  which  came  and 
went  in  the  suddenest  way,  brightening  her  and 


everything  about  her.  No  particular  art  of  the 
toilet  aided  or  hindered  the  prettiness  of  her  lit- 
tle slight  figure.  If  she  was  not  as  God  made 
her,  she  was  at  least  as  Miss  Buist  in  the  village 
made  her — in  a  dress  of  blue  serge,  as  near  the 
fashion  as  possible,  of  which  the  peculiarity  was 
that  it  was  rather  tight  where  it  ought  to  be  loose, 
and  loose  where  it  ought  to  be  tight.  But  Mar- 
garet's soul  had  not  been  awakened  to  the  point 
of  dress,  and  so  long  as  it  did  not  hurt,  she 
minded  little.  Her  shoes  were  made,  and 
strongly  made,  by  the  village  shoemaker ;  every- 
thing about  her  was  of  the  soil.  When  she  had 
swung  her  chair  to  the  wall,  she  let  it  drop  back 
again  to  its  place,  and  swallowed  a  little  yawn 
as  she  watched  the  water  brim  into  the  pail. 

"What  will  I  do,  Bell?"  she  said.  "What 
will  I  do  next,  Bell?" 

(If  any  one  thinks  that  Margaret  ought  to 
have  said,  "What  shall  I  do?"  they  are  to  re- 
member that  this  is  not  how  we  use  our  verbs 
in  the  kingdom  of  Fife.) 

"Oh,  Miss  Margret!  if  you  would  but  do  one 
thing,  just  wan  thing,  without  changin'  for  wan 
hour  by  the  clock!" 

"  You've  been  saying  that  as  long  as  I  can 
mind.  You,  you  never  change,  and  that's  why 
I  like  to  be  aye  changing.  There  are  so  few 
things  to  do  in  the  afternoon.  The  morning's 
better  —  there's  something  in  the  air.  I'm  al- 
ways content  in  the  morning." 

"Eh  ay!  you're  very  content,  flichterin'  about 
like  the  birds  among  the  trees,  wan  moment  on 
this  branch,  the  ither  on  that ;  but  the  after- 
noon, Miss  Margret,  the  afternoon's  the  time  for 
rest— if  you've  been  doing  ony  thing  the  fore  part 
of  the  da)'." 

"If  you  want  to  rest,"  said  Margaret ;  " you, 
perhaps,  Bell,  that  are  getting  old,  and  papa — 
I've  seen  him  sleepin'.  Figure  such  a  thing! 
Sleepin'!  with  the  sun  in  the  sky!" 

"1  can  figure  it  real  well,"  said  Bell;  "it's 
no  often  a  poor  body  gets  the  chance :  but  just 
to  close  your  eyes  in  the  drowsy  time,  when  a's 
well  redd  up,  the  fire  burning  steady,  and  the 
kettle  near  the  boil,  and  pussy  bumming  by  your 
side,  ah,  that's  pleasant!  it's  a  kind  o'  glimmer 
o'  heaven." 

"Heaven!  the  kettle  on  the  boil,  and  pussy 
— that's  a  funny  heaven, "said  Margaret,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Weel,  maybe  it's  ower  mateerial  an  image; 
but  we're  poor  fleshly  creatures;  and  I  was 
meaning  a  Sawbath  afternoon,  when  you've  come 
hame  from  the  kirk,  your  Bible  at  hand,  and  a' 
sae  quiet,"  said  Bell,  amending  her  first  flight. 
"Jeanie  stepping  saft  about  the  place,  waiting 
till  it's  time  to  mask  the  tea,  and  auld  John  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fire,  and  nothing  to  do  but 
to  thank  your  Maker  for  a'  his  mercies  and  think 
upon  the"  sermon— if  it  was  a  sound  sermon," 
Bell  added,  after  a  pause,  taking  up  her  pail ; 
"for  I  wouldna  say  they're  a'  of  the  kind  that 
ye  would  like  to  mind  and  think  upon  in  a  Saw- 
bath  afternoon  in  the  gloamin'.  Miss  Margret, 
what  do  you  say  to  run  up  the  stair  and  see  if 
your  papaw's  wanting  onything?  That  would 
ave  be  something  to  do." 

"  "  Oh,  Bell,  if  you  only  had  more  imagination ! 
You  always  tell  me  to  run  and  see  if  papa  is 
wanting  anything :  and  he  never  wants  anything, 
except,  perhaps,  a   book  from  the  high  shelf, 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


9 


where  they're  all  Greek,  ami  I  have  to  climb  up 
upon  the  steps,  and  get  no  good." 

"And  whase  fault's  that?"  said  Bell,  re- 
proachfully. She  had  set  down  the  pail  again 
and  paused,  looking  with  mournful  eyes  at  the 
voung  creature  seventeen  years  old,  who  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  herself.  "  Whase  fault's 
that  ?  Did  I  no  beg  ye  on  my  bended  knees  to 
learn  your  French  book?  — a'  wee  words,  as 
easy!  I  could  have  learned  it  mysel';  and  then 
ye  would  have  had  a'  the  shelfs  and  a'  the  books 
open  to  you,  and  your  papaw's  learnin'  at  your 
finger's-end." 

"Do  you  think  French  and  Greek  are  the 
same?"  cried  Margaret.  "Why,  they're  dif- 
ferent print  even— the  a  b  c  's  different;  they 
are  no  more  like  the  same  thing  than  you  and 
me." 

"I'm  no  saying  they're  just  the  same,"  said 
Bell,  a  little  "discomfited.  "One  thing's  aye 
different  from  another.  When  I  was  learnin'  it 
was  aw,  bay,  say  that  they  learned  me,  no  clip- 
pit  and  short  like  your  English.  But  the  creat- 
ure kens  something  after  a', "she  said  to  herself 
as  she  went  in-doors  with  her  pail.  "A  thing 
like  that,  with  a'  her  wits  about  her,  canna  be 
near  a  learned  man  without  learning  something. 
But  no  a  note  o'  the  piany!"  Bell  said,  with  a 
real  sense  of  humiliation.  For  that  want  what 
could  make  up? 

Margaret  was  left  alone  in  the  little  court,  and 
she  soon  tired  of  being  alone.  When  she  had 
remained  there  for  about  five  minutes,  watching 
the  sun  shine  upon  the  ruin  opposite  to  her,  and 
print  all  the  irregularities  of  the  wall  which  con- 
nected it  with  the  house  upon  the  broken  turf 
of  the  court,  she  got  up  suddenly  and  went  up- 
stairs. Musing  and  dreaming  were  the  only 
things  upon  which  she  could  spend  with  pleas- 
ure more  than  "twa  minutes  by  the  clock,"  as 
Bell  said.  She  would  read,  indeed,  as  long  as  ! 
any  one  pleased,  but  that  was  an  unprofitable  : 
exercise,  and  tended  to  nothing ;  for  what  was 
it  all  but  foolish  stories  and  daft-like  poetry,  and  j 
play-acting  and  nonsense?  These  things  were 
naught  in  the  estimation  of  the  people  in  the 
house  who  were  anxious  about  Margaret's  edu- 
cation. The  only  member  of  the  household  who 
took  no  thought  of  her  education  at  all  was  the  \ 
master,  who  sat  up-stairs  in  solitary  state.  Even 
Jeanie,  the  handmaiden  in  the  kitchen,  was  very 
anxious  on  Miss  Peggy's  account.  She  wanted 
to  see  her  young  mistress  go  to  balls,  and  have 
pretty  dresses  from  Edinburgh,  and  enjoy  her- 
self. What  was  the  use  of  being  bonny  and 
young  if  you  stayed  aye  in  one  auld  house  and 
nobody  saw  ye?  Jeanie  asked  herself.  And 
this  was  a  question  which  much  disturbed  and 
occupied  her  mind.  Old  John,  too,  who  was 
Bell's  husband,  and  the  male  factotum,  as  she 
was  the  female,  had  his  anxieties  about  Miss 
Peggy.  When  she  began  to  want  to  have  pair- 
ties  and  young  folk  about  her,  what  should  they 
all  do?  John  demanded.  He  would  be  will- 
ing, and  so  would  Bell,  to  "put  themselves 
about "  to  the  utmost ;  but  what  was  to  be  done 
for  chineyand  plate?  Wan  dozen  of  everything 
might  be  enough  for  the  family,  but  what  would 
that  do  for  a  pairty  ?  So  that  John's  mind  was 
disturbed  also.  But  old  Sir  Ludovic,  what  did 
he  mind  ?  Give  him  a  book,  and  ye  might  mine 
the  cellars,  and  throw  your  best  bomb-shells  at 


the  tower,  and  he  would  never  hear  ye.  Such 
was  the  general  opinion  of  the  house. 

There  was  no  entrance-hall  in  this  primitive 
house ;  but  only  a  little  space  at  the  "  stair-foot," 
the  bottom  of  the  well  through  which  the  spiral 
staircase  wound  its  narrow  way ;  but  though  it 
was  dark,  and  the  twist  of  the  unprotected  steps 
a  little  alarming  to  a  stranger,  Margaret  ran  up 
as  lightly  as  a  bird.  At  about  half  the  height 
of  an  ordinary  flight  of  stairs  there  were  two 
doors  close  to  each  other,  forming  a  little  angle. 
One  of  these  Margaret  pushed  open  softly.  It 
led  into  a  long  room,  running  all  the  length  of 
the  building,  panelled  wherever  the  wall  was  vis- 
ible, and  painted  white,  as  in  a  French  house  : 
one  side,  however,  was  covered  entirely  with  book- 
shelves. The  depth  of  the  recesses  in  which  the 
small  windows  were  embedded  showed  the  thick- 
ness of  the  wall.  One  at  each  end  and  one  in 
the  middle  were  all  that  lighted  the  long  room, 
two  or  three  others  which  had  belonged  to  the 
original  plan  having  been  blocked  up  on  account 
of  the  window  tax,  that  vexatious  impost.  In 
the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  large  old  japanned 
screen,  stretched  almost  across  the  whole  breadth, 
and  dividing  it  into  two.  On  the  south  side, 
into  which  the  door  opened,  a  large  writing-ta- 
ble was  placed  upon  the  old  and  much -worn 
Turkey- carpet  which  covered  the  middle  of  the 
floor ;  and  seated  at  this,  but  with  his  back  to  the 
sunshine,  which  was  pouring  in,  sat  an  old  man 
in  a  chair,  reading.  The  window  behind  him 
and  the  window  in  the  side  each  poured  its 
stream  of  sunshine  between  the  deep  cuttings  of 
the  ancient  walls,  five  or  six  feet  thick,  but  nei- 
ther of  these  rays  of  warmth  and  light  touched 
this  solitary  inhabitant.  He  was  so  much  ab- 
sorbed in  his  reading  that  he  did  not  hear  the 
door  open.  Margaret  came  in  behind  him  and 
stood  in  the  sunshine,  the  impersonation  of  youth 
— the  light  catching  her  at  all  points,  gleaming 
in  her  eyes,  bringing  color  to  her  cheek,  making 
her  collar  and  the  edge  of  white  round  her  hands 
blaze  against  the  darkness  of  her  dress.  But  no 
ray  touched  the  old  man  in  his  chair.  He  was 
as  still  as  if  he  had  been  cut  out  of  gray  marble, 
his  face  motionless,  the  movement  of  his  eyes  as 
he  read,  the  unfrequent  movement  necessary  to 
turn  the  page,  being  all  the  sign  of  life  about  him. 
The  book  he  was  reading  was  a  large  old  folio, 
propped  up  upon  a  sort  of  reading-desk  in  front 
of  him.  A  large  wide  garment,  something  be- 
tween a  long  coat  and  a  dressing-gown,  of  dark- 
colored  and  much -worn  velvet,  and  wrapped 
round  his  thin  person,  gave  it  some  dignity ;  and 
he  wore  a  little  black  velvet  skull-cap,  which  made 
his  fine  head  and  thin  white  locks  imposing. 
Margaret  stood  breathless,  making  no  sound  for 
a  moment,  and  then  said,  suddenly,  "You  look 
like  Archimage  in  the  cave,  papa!" 

The  old  man  made  a  faint  movement  of  sur- 
prise ;  a  wrinkle  of  impatience  came  into  his 
forehead,  a  momentary  smile  to  his  lip.  "Yes, 
yes,  my  little  Peggy;  go  and  play,"  he  said. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  behind  him,  hesitating, 
looking  round  her  with  eager  eyes  in  search  of 
something,  anything,  to  interest  her.  She  was 
neither  surprised  nor  wounded  to  find  herself 
thus  summarily  disposed  of:  she  was  used  to 
it.  Finally,  seeing  nothing  likely  to  interest  her, 
Margaret  turned  lightly  away,  and  disappeared 
through  a  second  door  which  was  close  to  the  one 


10 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


by  which  she  had  entered.  This  brought  her 
into  a  small  rounded  room,  with  one  window,  a 
little  white-panelled  Scotch-French  boudoir,  with 
a  high  mantel-piece  and  small  antique  furniture 
— a  little  square  of  Tin  key-carpet  on  the  floor, 
a  pretty  old  marquetry  cabinet,  and  some  high- 
backed  chairs  of  the  same  covered  with  brocaded 
silk  from  some  great-grandmother's  gown.  Mar- 
garet knew  nothing  about  the  value  of  these  old 
furnishings.  She  thought  the  walnut-wood  ta- 
ble, with  its  elaborate  clustered  legs,  a  much  finer 
article,  though  it  was  often  in  her  way.  There 
were  some  old  pictures  on  the  walls,  some  books, 
and  more  ornament  and  grace  than  in  all  the 
rest  of  the  house  put  together.  What  did  Mar- 
garet care?  She  sang  an  old  tune  to  herself, 
drumming  with  her  fingers  upon  the  window-sill, 
and  thinking  what  she  should  do.  Then  she 
drew  open  a  drawer  in  the  cabinet  and  took  from 
it  some  old  fancy-work,  faded  but  fine,  with  a 
bundle  of  wools  and  silks  in  the  same  condition. 
It  was  the  relic  of  some  old  lady's  industry  (Lady 
Jean,  old  Bell  said  ;  but  how  should  she  know  ?) 
which  had  been  found  in  one  of  the  periodical 
routings  out  of  old  presses  and  drawers  in  which 
Margaret  delighted.  The  linen  on  which  the 
work  was  half  done  was  yellow  and  the  colors 
faded,  but  it  had  struck  the  girl's  fancy,  and  she 
had  carried  it  off  with  her  to  finish  (this  time  a 
hundred  years,  Bell  said,  satirically).  Margaret 
took  it  out  now  and  laid  it  on  the  table ;  then 
she  went  flying  up  the  stone  stairs,  and  all  over 
the  rooms,  to  find  her  thimble  and  her  scissors, 
which  were  not  to  be  found. 

And  while  she  tries  to  find  these,  what  can  we 
do  better  than  let  the  reader  know  who  old  Sir 
Ludovic  was,  and  how  he  came  to  have  so  young 
a  child  ?  Margaret's  foot  flying  up-stairs,  and 
the  sound  she  made  of  doors  and  drawers  open- 
ing, and  now  an  impatient  exclamation  (for  the 
way  thimbles  hide  themselves  and  refuse  to  be 
found!)  and  now  a  little  snatch  of  song,  was  all 
that  was  audible  in  the  still  old  house.  Bell  and 
John  and  Jeanie  in  the  kitchen  had  their  cracks, 
indeed,  as  they  took  their  tea ;  but  sounds  did 
not  travel  easily  up  the  spiral  stair,  and  the  long 
room  with  its  one  inhabitant  was  as  void  of  all 
movement  as  was  the  vacant  little  white-panelled 
chamber  with  Lady  Jean's  old  work  thrown  on 
the  table.  All  silence,  languor,  stillness ;  and  yet 
one  creature  in  the  house  to  whom  stillness  was 
as  death. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Leslies  had  been  settled  at  EaiTs-hall 
since  before  the  memory  of  man.  Now  they 
were  related  to  other  Leslies  in  Fife ;  and  out  of 
it,  I  do  not  pretend  to  say.  But  this  family  it- 
self was  old  enough  to  have  carried  any  amount 
of  honors,  much  less  the  poor  baronetcy  which 
was  all  it  had  got  out  of  the  sometimes  lavish 
hand  of  fame.  The  family  was  old  enough  to 
have  supported  a  dukedom,  but  not  rich  enough. 
Sir  Ludovic  had  got  but  a  moderate  fortune  from 
his  father,  and  that  which  he  would  transmit  to 
his  son  would  be  considerably  less  than  moder- 
ate. Indeed,  it  was  not  worth  calling  a  fortune 
at  all.  When  the  Baronet  began  his  life,  the 
policy  was  a  real  policy,  a  pretty  small  park 
enough,  with  its  girdle  of  hardy  trees.     No  tur- 


nip-field then  thrust  its  plebeian  presence  and 
odor  between  the  house  and  its  own  woods ;  the 
garden  was  kept  up  with  care,  the  other  part  of 
the  house  was  still  habitable  and  inhabited,  and 
the  greatest  people  in  the  country  did  not  scorn 
to  dine  and  dance  in  the  rooms  so  well  adapted 
for  either  purpose.  But  of  all  these  good  things, 
the  rooms  and  old  Sir  Ludovic  were  all  that  re- 
mained. He  had  not  done  any  particular  harm 
at  any  time,  nor  had  he  wasted  his  means  in  lav- 
ish living,  and  nobody  was  so  much  surprised 
as  he  when  his  money  was  found  to  have  been 
spent.  "What  have  1  done  with  it?"  he  had 
asked  all  his  life.  But  nobody  could  tell ;  he 
had  no  expensive  tastes  —  indeed,  he  had  no 
tastes  at  all,  except  for  books,  and  his  own  libra- 
ry was  a  very  good  one.  It  was  true,  he  had  in- 
dulged in  three  wives  and  three  families,  which 
was  inconsiderate,  but  each  of  the  wives  had, 
greatly  to  the  comfort  of  her  respective  children, 
possessed  something  of  her  own.  Time  went 
and  came,  however,  taking  these  ladies  away  in 
succession,  but  leaving  Sir  Ludovic  still  in  his 
great  high-backed  chair,  older,  but  otherwise  not 
much  different  from  what  he  had  ever  been. 
The  eldest  son,  also  called  Ludovic,  was  the 
only  one  now  surviving  of  the  first  marriage.  He 
was  a  man  of  forty-five,  with  a  family  of  his 
own;  a  hard-working  lawyer  in  Edinburgh,  with 
no  great  income  to  keep  up  his  position,  and  lit- 
tle disposed  to  welcome  the  burden  of  his  fa- 
ther's little  title  when  it  should  come.  A  baron- 
etcy, and  an  old  house  altogether  uninhabitable 
by  a  family,  and  entirely  out  of  modern  fashion — 
what  should  he  make  of  these  additions  when 
his  father  died?  He  had  made  his  own  way  as 
much  as  if  he  had  been  a  poor  school-master's 
son,  instead  of  the  heir  of  an  ancient  and  impor- 
tant family.  He  could  not  even  take  his  chil- 
dren home  to  the  old  place,  or  give  them  any 
associations  with  it,  for  there  was  no  room  at 
Earl's-hall.  "Your  father  might  as  well  be  in 
Russia,"  his  wife  sometimes  said  when  she  want- 
ed a  change  for  a  little  boy  who  was  delicate. 
And  privately,  Mr.  Leslie  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  sell  the  place,  though  it  had  been  so  long  in 
the  family,  when  Sir  Ludovic  died. 

Of  the  second  family  there  were  two  remain- 
ing, two  daughters,  one  of  whom  had  been  mar- 
ried and  had  settled  in  England  ;  the  other,  who 
had  not  married,  living  with  her.  They  were 
twins,  and  some  five  years  younger  than  their 
elder  brother.  And  neither  did  they  come  often 
to  Earl's-hall.  The  same  objection  was  in  ev- 
erybody's way — there  was  no  room  for  them. 
And  Sir  Ludovic  disliked  letter-writing.  They 
came  occasionally  to  see  their  father,  and  to  hold 
up  their  hands  and  shake  their  heads  at  the  way 
in  which  little  Margaret  was  being  brought  up. 
But  what  could  these  ladies  do  ?  To  live  at 
Earl's-hall  was  impossible,  and  to  go  and  stay 
in  a  little  cottage  in  the  Kirkton,  all  for  the  sake 
of  a  small  step-sister,  and  without  even  any  se- 
curity that  they  could  really  be  of  any  use  to 
her,  was  something  more  of  a  test  than  their 
lukewarm  family  affection  could  bear.  And  they 
hesitated  about  recommending  a  governess;  for 
with  an  old  gentleman  so  much  addicted  to 
marriage,  who  could  tell  what  might  happen? 
Though  he  was  seventy-five,  he  was  the  same 
man  as  ever,  and  very  fascinating  when  he  chose 
to  exert  himself ;  and  to  have  a  new  Lady  Les- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


11 


lie  would  be  a  still  greater  horror  than  to  have 
a  young  rustic  for  a  step-sister.  And  then  the 
child  would  be  rich.  It  does  not  require  much 
learning,  as  Mrs.  Hardcastle  says,  to  spend  fif- 
teen hundred  a  year. 

So  that  Margaret  was  left  alone.  Her  moth- 
er had  been  the  richest  of  all  Sir  Ludovic's  wives. 
She  had  been  —  more  wonderful  still  —  a  young 
beauty,  courted  and  flattered,  and  how  it  was 
that  she  passed  over  all  her  younger  admirers 
and  fixed  upon  a  man  of  fifty-five,  a  poor  old 
Scotch  baronet,  nobody  could  divine.  But  she 
did  so,  and  came  home  with  him  to  Earl's-hall, 
and  brightened  it  a  while  with  her  youth  and 
her  wealth,  and  would  have  done  wonders  for 
the  old  house.  Nothing  less  had  been  intended 
than  to  rebuild  the  ruin,  though  ISir  Ludovic 
himself  discouraged  this,  as  the  house,  he  re- 
minded her,  must  pass  into  other  hands.  But 
poor  Lady  Leslie's  fine  projects  came  to  a  pre- 
mature end,  by  means  of  a  bad  cold  which  she 
caught  just  after  her  little  girl  was  born.  She 
died,  and  the  last  gleam  of  prosperity  died  away 
with  her.  Margaret,  it  was  true,  was  rich,  and 
the  allowance  her  trustees  made  her  was  no  small 
help  even  now  to  the  impoverished  household ; 
though,  indeed,  the  trouble  these  trustees  gave, 
her  father  thought,  was  more  than  the  money 
was  worth.  They  wrote  to  Sir  Ludovic  about 
her  education  till  he  was  roused  to  swear  at, 
though  not  to  profit  by,  the  perpetual  remon- 
strance. 

"Education!  what  would  they  have  at  her 
age  ?     A  mere  child,"  he  said. 

"Eh,  Sir  Ludovic!  but  she's  sixteen,"  Bell 
said,  who  was  the  only  one  in  the  house  who 
ever  ventured  to  keep  up  an  argument  with  her 
old  master. 

'•  Pshaw!"  the  old  man  said  ;  for  what  is  six- 
teen to  seventy-five?  And  besides,  did  he  not 
see  her  before  him  a  slim  stripling  of  a  girl,  flit- 
ting about  in  perpetual  motion,  a  singing  voice, 
a  dancing  step,  a  creature  never  in  the  same 
place,  as  Bell  said,  for  "  twa  minutes  by  the 
clock?"  What  does  that  kind  of  small  thing 
want  with  education  ?  Sir  Ludovic  liked  her 
better  without  it,  and  so  perhaps  would  most 
people :  for  are  not  the  fresh  wonder,  curiosity, 
and  intelligent  ignorance  of  a  child  its  most  cap- 
tivating qualities?  If  we  could  but  venture  to 
take  the  good  of  them  with  a  clear  conscience 
and  no  thought  of  what  the  child  will  say  to  us 
when  it  ceases  to  be  a  child !  Sir  Ludovic  had 
this  courage.  He  did  not  think  much  of  his  du- 
ties to  Margaret.  She  had  duties  to  him — to  be 
always  pretty  and  cheerful,  not  to  speak  too 
broad  Scotch,  to  get  his  books  down  for  him 
when  he  wanted  them,  to  put  everything  ready 
on  his  table,  pens,  pencils,  and  note-book,  in  case 
he  should  want  to  write  something  (which  he 
never  did),  and  to  he  neat  and  in  order  at  meal- 
times. In  this  one  particular  he  certainly  did 
his  duty.  Margaret  had  not  the  privilege  of  be- 
ing untidy,  which  is  allowed  to  most  neglected 
heroines.  Sir  Ludovic  required  scrupulous  neat- 
ness, hair  that  shone,  and  garments  that  were 
spotless,  and  ribbons  as  fresh  as  the  day.  Should 
not  we  all  like  just  such  a  creature  about  us,  fair 
as  a  new-blown  rose,  with  a  voice  so  toned  and 
harmonious,  a  step  with  rhythm  in  it,  a  pair  of 
eyes  running  over  with  understanding  and  inter- 
est, and  no  education  to  speak  of?    If  only  the 


creature  would  not  arise  upon  us  after  and  up- 
braid us  for  its  want  of  knowledge!  But  of  this 
risk  Sir  Ludovic  never  dreamed.  She  could 
read,  he  supposed,  for  he  saw  her  reading ;  and 
she  could  write,  he  knew,  for  he  had  seen  her  do 
it.     What  could  they  want  more? 

Thus  they  lived,  not  uncontented,  from  year 
to  year.  No  one  told  Margaret  to  read,  but  she 
did  so,  perhaps  with  all  the  more  pleasure  be- 
cause nobody  told  her.  She  read  all  the  best 
poetry  that  is  written  in  English,  and  a  great 
deal  that  was  not  the  best.  She  was  so  great 
in  history  that  she  had  been  a  Lancastrian  and 
taken  an  active,  even  violent,  part  on  the  side  of 
her  namesake,  Margaret  of  Anjou,  as  long  as  she 
could  remember — a  more  violent  part  even  than 
she  took  for  Queen  Mary,  though  to  that  also 
she  was  bound  as  a  true  Scot.  She  had  read 
Clarendon  and  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  and  Burton 
on  "  Melancholy  "  (not  caring  much  for  that)  and 
an  old  translation  of  Froissart,  and  "Paul  and 
Virginia, "and  Madame  Cottin's  "Elizabeth," 
and  "Don  Quixote," all  in  translations  ;  so  that 
her  range  was  tolerably  wide;  and  everything 
came  natural  to  Margaret,  the  great  and  the 
small.  Needless  to  say  that  all  Sir  Walter  was 
hers  by  nature,  as  what  well-conditioned  Scots 
person  of  seventeen  has  not  possessed  our  home- 
lier Shakspeare  from  his  or  her  cradle  ?  Wheth- 
er she  loved  best  the  Spanish  Don,  or  Lord  Falk- 
land, or  Sir  Kenneth  in  the  "Talisman,"  was  not 
to  her  mind  perfectly  clear.  In  this  respect  she 
was  not  so  sure  about  Shakspeare.  His  lovers 
and  heroes  did  not  satisfy  her  youthful  require- 
ments ;  she  loved  Henry  the  Fifth,  and  Faulcon- 
bridge,  and  Benedick,  but  was  not  at  all  satisfied 
about  the  relations  between  Hamlet  and  Ophelia, 
naturally  standing  by  her  own  side,  and  thinking 
that  poor  maiden  badly  used  :  which  is  as  much 
as  to  say  that  the  spell  of  story  was  still  strong 
upon  her,  though  the  poetry  went  to  her  head  all 
the  same.  These  were  the  books  Sir  Ludovic  saw 
her  reading — but  he  took  no  notice  and  no  over- 
sight. He  did  not  think  of  her  at  all  as  a  re- 
sponsible creature  to  be  affected  one  way  or  other 
by  what  she  read,  or  as  undergoing  any  process 
of  training  for  the  future.  The  future!  what  is 
that  at  seventy-five?  especially  to  a  man  who 
amiably  and  without  evil  intention  has  always 
found  himself  the  centre  of  the  world !  It  is  like 
the  future  of  a  child — to-morrow.  He  did  not 
want  to  pry  any  further.  What  was  to  come, 
would'  come  without  any  intervention  of  his. 
Had  his  child  been  penniless,  probably  he  would 
have  thought  it  necessary  to  remember  that  in 
all  probability  (as  he  expressed  it)  she  would  sur- 
vive him.  But  she  was  rich,  and  where  was  the 
need  of  thinking  ?  The  great  thing  was  that 
there  was  no  room.  The  bedrooms  in  the  house 
were  so  few.  Where  could  they  put  a  governess, 
he  asked  Bell ;  and  even  Bell,  though  full  of  re- 
sources, could  not  reply.  There  was  one  good- 
sized  room  which  Sir  Ludovic  himself  occupied, 
and  another  quaint  small  panelled  chamber  in 
which  Margaret  was  very  snug  and  cosy,  but  be- 
yond these  scarcely  any  bedchamber  in  the  house 
was  in  a  proper  state  of  repair.  What  could  any 
one  say  against  so  evident  a  fact?  "We  could 
dine  fifty  folk,"  Bell  said,  half  proudly,  half  sad- 
ly, "and  we  could  gie  a  grand  ball  after  that  up 
the  stair ;  but  pit  up  one  single  gentleman  that  is 
no  very  particular,  that's  all  we  could  do  beside." 


12 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


It  was  a  curious  state  of  affairs.  The  two  long 
rooms,  one  above  the  other,  were  the  whole 
house. 

Of  the  wealth  which  Margaret  was  to  inherit, 
she  knew  absolutely  nothing.  There  was  a  house 
"in  England,"  a  vague  description  which  the  girl 
had  never  much  inquired  into,  seeing  that  till  her 
twenty-first  birthday  it  was  very  unlikely  that 
she  would  have  anything  whatever  to  do  witli  it. 
In  the  mean  time  it  served  a  very  pleasant  pur- 
pose in  her  life.  It  was  the  scene  of  so  many 
dreams  and  visions  of  that  future  which  was 
everything  to  Margaret,  that  it  could  not  be  said 
to  be  an  unknown  place.  She  built  it  and  fur- 
nished it,  and  planted  trees  and  invented  glades 
about  the  unrevealed  place,  such  as  in  reality  it 
could  not  boast  of.  Everything  that  she  thought 
most  beautiful  in  her  small  experience  of  things, 
or  whicli  she  found  in  her  considerable  experi- 
ence of  books,  she  placed  in  this  distant  man- 
sion, where  all  manner  of  pleasant  verdure  was, 
which  was  not  to  be  found  in  Scotland,  flowers 
and  fruits,  and  green  lawns,  and  abundant  foli- 
age, and  sunshine  such  as  never  shone  in  Fife. 
She  made  pictures  of  it,  and  dreamed  dreams, 
but  no  troublesome  dash  of  reality  disturbed  the 
vision.  She  was  the  lady  of  the  manor,  a  title 
which  pleased  her  fancy  hugely,  and  which  she 
wove  into  many  a  fancy  ;  but  it  was  all  as  vision- 
ary as  if  she  had  found  the  Grange  in  a  novel 
and  appropriated  it. 

If  anything  could  have  been  more  unlike  an 
English  manor-house  than  the  quaint  old  dwell- 
ing in  which  her  childhood  had  been  passed,  it 
was  the  dreams  Margaret  wove  of  her  future 
home.  Claude  Melnotte"s  palace  was  more  like 
that  sunshiny  fancy.  No  castle  in  Spain  or  in 
the  air  was  ever  more  unreal.  There  wants  no 
education  to  teach  a  girl  how  to  dream,  and  the 
less  she  knows,  so  much  the  more  gorgeous  and 
delightful  becomes  the  imagination.  But  nat- 
urally this  was  a  branch  of  her  training  totally 
unknown  to  everybody  connected  with  her.  Sir 
Ludovic  knew  a  great  deal,  but  had  not  a  no- 
tion of  that  branch  of  human  effort;  neither.it 
may  well  be  supposed,  did  Cell,  though  her  in- 
stincts were  clearer.  When  she  saw  her  young 
mistress  sit  abstracted,  her  eyes  far  away,  a  half 
smile  on  her  lips,  Bell  knew  that  there  must  be 
something  going  on  within  the  small  head. 
What  was  it  ?  There  were  no  young  men,  or,  as 
Bell  called  them,  "lauds," about  that  could  have 
caught  her  youthful  eye.  Bell  knew  that  the 
romance  of  life  begins  early,  and  had  some  glim- 
mering of  recollection  that  before  any  "lauds" 
appear  on  the  horizon  in  reality,  there  are  flut- 
ters of  anticipation  in  maiden  souls,  dreams  of 
being  wooed  like  the  rest,  "respectit  like  the 
lave."  But  Margaret  had  seen  none  of  the  rural 
wooings  which  are  a  recognized  institution  in 
Scotland,  those  knocks  at  the  window  and  whis- 
pers at  the  door,  which  add  the  charm  of  mys- 
tery to  the  never-ending  romance.  Bell  had 
taken  care  even  that  Jeanie's  "laud"  and  his 
evening  visits  should  be  kept  out  of  the  young 
lady's  notice.  But  then,  if  it  was  not  the  glim- 
mer of  poetic  love  that  flickered  on  the  horizon, 
what  was  it?  And  except  Bell,  and  perhaps 
Jeanie,  no  one  had  noticed  the  soft  abstracted 
look  that  sometimes  stole  into  Margaret's  eyes, 
or  knew  her  capacity  for  dreams.  Mr.  Leslie, 
when  lie  came,  took  bnt  little  notice  of  his  step- 


sister. He  had  a  daughter  who  was  older  than 
she,  indeed  Margaret  had  become  a  great-aunt, 
to  the  amusement  of  everybody,  during  the  pre- 
vious winter.  Her  brother  took  very  little  no- 
tice of  her.  When  he  looked  at  her,  he  breathed 
a  private  thanksgiving  that  she  was  provided 
for,  and  would  not  be  an  additional  burden  upon 
him  when  his  father  died.  It  was  only  when 
Sir  Ludovic  was  ill  or  in  difficulty,  that  Mr.  Les- 
lie came,  and  the  reflection,  "Thank  Heaven  I 
have  not  the  lassie  to  think  of,"  was  the  fore- 
most sentiment  in  his  breast.  He  had  plenty 
of  his  own  to  exhaust  all  the  fund  of  interest  in 
his  heart.  She  had  no  business  ever  to  have 
been,  this  young  creature  whose  presence  in  the 
old  house  made  a  certain  difference  naturally  in 
all  the  arrangements;  but,  being  there,  the  chief 
fact  was  this  fortunate  one  that  she  was  pro- 
vided for.  So  far  as  Margaret  was  concerned, 
this  was  the  only  thing  in  his  thoughts. 

As  for  Mrs.  Bellingham  and  her  sister,  Miss 
Leslie,  they  lived  a  long  way  from  Fife.  They 
were  ladies  who  travelled  a  great  deal,  and  spent 
all  they  had  to  spend  in  making  their  life  pleas- 
ant. Mrs.  Bellingham  was  childless,  and  a 
widow,  so  that  her  married  life  did  not  count  for 
much,  though  she  herself  regarded  the  elevation 
it  gave  her  with  much  contentment.  Now  and 
then,  instead  of  going  to  Switzerland  or  the  Ital- 
ian lakes,  they  would  come  to  Scotland,  making 
expeditions  into  the  Highlands,  and  preserving 
everywhere  their  character  as  British  tourists. 
Once  there  had  been  some  question  between 
them  of  inviting  Margaret  to  accompany  them 
on  one  of  these  expeditions,  which  it  was  thought 
might  do  her  good  and  improve  her  manners, 
and  give  her  a  little  acquaintance  with  the  world. 
But  on  more  mature  reflection,  it.  became  appar- 
ent that  the  maid  whom  the  two  ladies  shared 
between  them,  when  on  their  travels,  was  by  no 
means  disposed  to  undertake  the  packing  and 
toilet  of  a  third. 

"  Many  a  girl  would  be  glad  to  give  a  little 
assistance  herself  rather  than  trouble,  for  the 
chance  of  such  a  treat,"  Miss  Leslie  said,  who 
was  the  weak-minded  sister;  "and  in  that  way 
I  really  think  we  might  manage — if  dear  Mar- 
garet was  a  sensible  girl." 

"Margaret  is  not  a  sensible  girl,  and  we 
could  not  manage  at  all,  and  I  won't  have  For- 
rester put  about,"  Mrs.  Bellingham  said, who  took 
the  management  of  everything  upon  her.  "  Be- 
sides, a  girl — she  would  be  an  endless  trouble 
to  you  and  me.  We  should  have  to  change  our 
route  to  let  her  see  this  thing  and  that  thing, 
and  you  would  be  afraid  she  did  not  enjoy  her- 
self, and  the  Lord  knows  what  besides.  There 
are  many  things  in  conversation  even  that  have 
to  be  stopped  before  a  girl.  No,  no ;  it  would 
never  do." 

And  thus  one  hope  for  Margaret's  improve- 
ment came  to  an  end.  A  similar  failure  hap- 
pened about  the  same  time  in  Edinburgh. 
When  Mrs.  Ludovic  got  that  German  governess, 
who  was  at  once  her  pride  and  her  dread,  she 
was  so  much  affected  by  the  grandeur  and  su- 
periority as  to  suggest  an  arrangement  to  her 
husband  by  which  his  little  sister  might  be  ben- 
efited. 

"It  appears  to  me  that  we,  who  have  such 
advantages,  ought,  perhaps,  to  share  them  a  lit- 
tle with  others  that  are  not  so  well  off.     There 


THE  riUMROSE  PATH. 


13 


is  little  Margaret  at  the  Hall.  What  do  you 
think  ?  Sir  Ludovic  might  send  her  to  us  to 
share  the  children's  lessons.  Fiiuilein  is  an  ex- 
pensive luxury,  and  a  little  help  with  her  salary 
would  be  no  harm.  And  if  Margaret  had  six 
months  with  our  girls,  ic  would  do  her  a  great 
deal  of  good  ;  if  it  was  only  to  learn  German — " 

"What  does  she  want  with  German?  What 
good  would  it  do  her  to  learn  German?"  said 
Ludovic,  testily. 

"Well,  I'm,  sure,  Ludovic,  that's  not  an  easy 
question.  I  never  thought  you  were  one  to  ask 
for  an  immediate  result.  I  am  sure  you  all  say 
learning  anything  is  an  advantage,  whether  the 
thing  they  learn  is  any  use  or  not.  I  do  not 
always  see  it  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie;  "but 
many  is  the  time  I've  heard  you  all  say  so.  And 
if  we  could  do  Margaret  a  good  turn,  and  at 
the  same  time  save  something  on  our  own  ex- 
penses— " 

"Do  Margaret  a  good  turn!  I  do  not  see 
what  claim  she -has  on  me.  She  has  plenty  of 
people  to  look  after  her  if  they  would  do  their 
duty.  Trustees  of  her  money,  and  her  mother's 
relations,  not  to  speak  of  my  father  himself,  who 
has  plenty  of  energy  left  when  you  cross  him. 
Indeed,  if  you  come  to  that,  Jane  and  Grace  are 
nearer  to  her  than  I." 

"Because  the  second  is  nearer  the  third  than 
the  first  is,"  Mrs.  Ludovic  said,  who  had  some 
sense  of  humor.  But  she  added,  "  Well !  I 
never  made  any  attempt  to  fathom  you  Leslies 
but  I  was  baffled.  I  think  there  was  never  a 
set  of  people  like  you.  I  hope  I'll  never  be  so 
left  to  myself  as  to  try  again." 

"  We  Leslies !  The  most  of  the  Leslies  now- 
adays are  your  own  bairns." 

"That's  true,  and  more's  the  pity,"  said  the 
lady,  discharging  an  arrow  as  she  went  away. 

And  thus  another  attempt  to  do  something 
for  Margaret  came  to  nothing.  Everything  fail- 
ed. It  was  nobody's  business,  perhaps.  The 
trustees  were  strangers  who  did  not  know.  Her 
father  was  old,  and  did  not  care  to  be  troubled, 
and  liked  her  best  as  she  was.  Her  brothers 
and  sisters,  what  had  they  to  do  with  it?  They 
were  not  their  little  sister's  keeper.  So  between 
them  all  she  was  left  to  grow  as  she  pleased,  like 
a  flower  or  a  weed,  nobody  responsible  for  her, 
whatever  might  happen.  Even  a  School  Board, 
had  there  been  one  in  the  parish,  what  right 
would  it  have  had  to  interfere? 


CHAPTER  III. 

Margaret  searched  a  whole  half- hour  for 
her  thimble,  which  was  found  at  the  end  of  that 
time  in  the  pocket  of  a  dress  which  she  had  not 
worn  for  a  week  ;  but  when  she  had  found  it,  she 
no  longer  thought  of  Lady  Jean's  work.  That 
purpose  had  faded  altogether  from  her  mind. 
She  forgot  even  what  she  wanted  the  thimble 
for,  and  being  seized  with  a  sudden  fancy  for 
remedying  the  disorder  of  her  drawers,  immedi- 
ately set  to  work  to  do  so,  with  a  zeal  more  fer- 
vent than  discreet ;  for  as  soon  as  she  had  turn- 
ed the  top  drawer  out,  scattering  all  her  light 
possessions,  her  collars  and  ribbons  and  bits  of 
lace,  out  upon  her  bed,  she  was  summoned  by 
the   bell  for  dinner,  and  thought  of  them  no 


more.  Margaret  hastily  arranged  her  hair,  put 
on  a  bit  of  fresh  ribbon,  and  rushed  down-stairs; 
for  to  keep  Sir  Ludovic  waiting  was  a  sin  beyond 
excuse.  On  the  other  side  of  the  great  japanned 
screen  which  divided  the  room  into  two,  stood 
the  table,  laid  with  scrupulous  care,  and  served 
by  John  in  his  rusty  but  trim  and  sober  "  blacks," 
with  a  gravity  that  would  not  have  misbecome 
an  archbishop.  Sir  Ludovic  had  put  down  his 
book,  he  had  washed  his  hands,  and  he  was 
read}'.  He  stood  dignified  and  serious,  almost 
as  serious  as  John  himself  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  by  the  edge  of  the  screen.  J'aifailli  at- 
tendre  might  be  read  in  the  curve  above  his  eye- 
brows ;  and  yet  he  received  his  erring  child 
with  perfect  temper,  which  was  more  than  could 
be  said  for  John,  who  gloomed  at  her  from  un- 
der his  heavy  eyebrows. 

"  Oh,  papa,  I  am  sorry,"  Margaret  began. 
"I  was  busy — " 

"  If  you  were  busy,  that  is  no  reason  for  be- 
ing sorry ;  but  you  should  not  forget  hours — they 
are  our  best  guide  in  life,"  said  her  father.  But 
he  was  not  angry ;  he  took  her  by  the  hand  and 
led  her  in,  handing  her  to  her  seat  with  stately 
ceremony.  'Phis  daily  ceremonial,  which  Mar- 
garet hated,  and  would  have  done  anything  to 
avoid,  was  the  means  by  which  Sir  Ludovic  every 
day  made  his  claim  of  high-breeding  and  unfor- 
gotten  courtliness  of  demeanor,  in  presence  of 
men  and  angels.  Whosoever  might  think  he 
had  forgotten  what  was  due  to  his  daughter  as  a 
young  lady  and  a  Leslie,  and  what  was  due  to 
himself  as  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  not  a 
modern  man  of  no  manners,  here  was  his  an- 
swer. John  looked  on  at  this  solemnity  with 
gloomy  interest ;  but  Margaret  hated  it.  She 
reddened  all  over  her  youthful  countenance,  brow 
and  throat.  Between  the  two  old  men  she 
moved,  passive  but  resentful,  to  her  seat,  and 
slid  into  it  the  moment  her  father  released  her, 
with  ungrateful  haste  to  get  done  with  the  disa- 
greeable ceremony.  They  were  "  making  a  fool 
of  her,"  Margaret  thought.  Though  it  occurred 
every  evening,  she  never  got  less  impatient  of 
this  formula.  Then  Sir  Ludovic  took  his  own 
place.  He  was  not  tall,  but  of  an  imposing  ap- 
pearance, now  that  he  was  fully  visible.  In  the 
other  half  of  the  room,  where  all  his  work  was 
done,  he  sat  invariably  with  his  back  to  the 
light.  But  here  he  was  fully  revealed.  His 
white  locks  surrounded  a  fine  and  remarkable 
face,  in  which  every  line  seemed  drawn  on  ivory. 
He  had  no  color  save  in  his  lips,  and  the  won- 
derful undimmed  dark  eyes,  darkly  lashed  and 
eyebrowed,  which  shone  in  all  the  lustre  of 
youth.  With  those  eyes  Sir  Ludovic  could  do 
anything — "wile  a  bird  from  the  tree,"  old  Bell 
said;  and,  indeed, it  was  his  eyes  which  had  be- 
guiled Margaret's  mother,  and  brought  her  to 
this  old-world  place.  But  Margaret  was  used 
to  them ;  perhaps  she  had  not  that  adoring  love 
for  her  father  which  many  girls  have ;  and  es- 
pecially at  dinner,  after  the  little  ceremony  we 
have  recorded,  she  was  more  than  indifferent  to, 
she  was  resentful  of  his  attractions.  At  that 
age  he  might  have  known  better  than  "  to  make 
a  fool,"  before  John,  day  after  day,  of  his  little 
girl. 

This  day,  however,  the  dinner  went  on  har- 
moniously enough  ;  for  Margaret  never  ventured 
to  show  her  resentment,  except  by  the  sudden 


14 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


angry  flush,  which  her  father  took  for  sensitive- 
ness and  quickly  moved  feeling.  He  talked  to 
her  a  little  with  hind  condescension,  as  to  a 
child. 

"You  were  busy,  you  said;  let  us  hear,  my 
little  Peggy,  what  the  busy-ness  was." 

"I  was  doing— a  great  many  things,  papa." 

"Ah !  people  who  do  a  great  many  things  all 
at  once  are  apt  to  get  into  confusion.  I  would 
do  one  thing,  just  one  thing  at  a  time,  my  Peg- 
gy, if  I  were  a  little  girl." 

"Papa!"  said  Margaret,  with  another  wave 
of  color  passing  over  her,  "indeed,  if  you  would 
look  at  me,  you  would  see  that  I  am  not  a  little 
girl." 

"Yes,  you  have  grown  a  great  deal  lately,  my 
clear.  I  beg  your  pardon.  It  is  hard  to  teach 
an  old  person  like  myself  where  babyhood  ends. 
You  see,  I  like  to  think  that  you  are  a  little  girl. 
Eh,  John?  we  like  something  young  in  the 
house ;  the  younger  the  better — " 

"No  me,  Sir  Ludovic,"  said  John. 

He  was  very  laconic,  wasting  no  words ;  and 
Margaret  felt  that  he  disapproved  of  her  youth 
altogether.  But  this  restored  her  to  herself,  and 
she  laughed.  For  John,  though  morose  in  out- 
ward aspect,  was,  as  she  very  well  knew,  her 
slave  actually.  This  made  her  laugh,  and  the 
two  old  men  liked  the  laugh.  It  brought  a  cor- 
responding light  into  Sir  Ludovic's  fine  eyes, 
and  it  melted  a  little  the  morose  muscles  about 
John's  closely  shut  mouth. 

"But  I  am  not  so  very  young,"  she  said. 
>"  Jeanie's  sister,  who  is  just  my  age,  has  been 
in  a  place  for  a  long  time ;  and  most  people  are 
considered  grown-up  at  my  age.  You  ought 
not  to  make  a  fool  of  me." 

"My  little  Peggy,"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  "that 
is  an  incorrect  expression.  Nobody  could  make 
a  fool  of  you  except  yourself.  It  is  Scotch,  my 
dear,  very  Scotch,  which  is  a  thing  your  sisters 
Jean  and  Grace  have  already  often  warned  me 
against.     You  are  very  Scotch,  they  tell  me." 

"Set  them  up!"  ejaculated  old  John,  under 
his  breath. 

Margaret  reddened  with  ready  wrath. 

"And  I  am  Scotch,"  she  said.  "How  could 
I  speak  otherwise?  They  were  always  going  on 
about  something.  Either  it  was  my  shoulders, 
or  it  was  my  hair,  or  it  was  my  tongue — " 

"Your  tongue!  My  Peggy,  your  idioms  are 
strange,  it  must  be  allowed;  but  never  mind. 
What  had  they  to  say  against  your  hair?  It  is 
very  pretty  hair.  I  don't  see  any  ground  to 
find  fault  there." 

"Oh,  it  was  not  in  the  fashion," said  Marga- 
ret. "You  know,  papa,  you  like  it  smooth,  and 
that  is  not  the  fashion  now ;  it  ought  to  be  all  tow- 
zy,  like  my  little  dog,  and  hanging  in  my  eyes." 

"The  Lord  preserve  us !"  said  old  John.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  giving  utterance  to  his  sen- 
timents as  constrained  by  some  internal  move- 
ment }>Jusfort  que  lui ;  and  no  one  ever  inter- 
fered with  this  habit  of  his.  "What  next?" 
said  the  old  man,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders 
behind  his  master's  chair. 

"Then  you  must  continue  to  be  old-fashioned 
so  long  as  I  live,"  said  Sir  Ludovic.  "Your 
sisters  are  very  well-meaning  women,  my  Peg- 
gy; but  even  when  you  are  as  clever  as  Mrs. 
Bellingham  and  as  wise  as  Miss  Leslie,  you  will 
not  have  fathomed  evervthing.     We'll  leave  the 


philosophy  to  them,  my  little  woman,  and  vou 
and  I  will  manage  the  hair-dressing.  That  is 
evidently  the  point  in  which  our  genius  lies." 

Margaret  looked  up,  somewhat  jealously,  to 
see  whether  she  was  again  being  made  "a  fool 
of;"  but  as  no  such  intention  appeared  in  her 
father's  face,  she  returned  to  the  consideration 
of  her  dinner.  It  was  not  a  heavy  meal.  A 
little  fish — "baddies," such  as  were  never  found 
but  in  the  Firth,  little  milk-white  flounders,  the 
very  favorites  of  the  sea,  or  the  homely  herring, 
commonest,  cheapest,  and  best  of  fish.  But 
then,  perhaps,  they  require  to  be  cooked  as  Bell 
knew  how  to  cook  them.  No  expensive  exotic 
salmon,  turbot,  or  other  aristocrat  of  the  waters 
ever  came  to  Sir  Ludovic's  table.  Let  them  be 
for  the  vulgar  rich,  who  knew  no  better.  The 
native  product  of  his  own  coasts  was  good 
enough,  he  would  say,  in  mock  humility,  for 
him.  And  then  came  one  savory  dish  of  the 
old  Scotch  cuisine  now  falling  out  of  knowledge; 
no  vulgar  dainty  of  the  haggis  kind,  but  stews 
and  rai/outs  which  the  best  of  chefs  would  not 
disdain.  This  was  all ;  the  plat  doux  has  never 
been  a  regular  concomitant  of  a  Scotch  dinner  ; 
and  Sir  Ludovic  was  a  small  eater,  and  had  his 
digestion  to  consider.  It  was  not,  therefore, 
a  very  lengthened  meal ;  and  as  six  o'clock  was 
the  dinner-hour  at  Earl's-hall,  there  were  still 
several  long  hours  of  sunshine  to  be  got  through 
before  night  came. 

Now  was  the  time  when  Margaret  felt  what  it 
was  to  be  alone.  The  long  summer  evening, 
loveliest,  most  wistful,  and  lingering  hour  of  all 
the  day,  when  something  in  the  heart  demands 
happiness,  demands  that  which  is  unattainable 
one  way  or  another — is  it  possible  to  be  young, 
to  be  void  of  care,  to  possess  all  the  elements  of 
happiness,  without  wishing  for  something  more, 
a  visionary  climax,  another  sweetness  in  those 
soft,  lingering,  visionary  hours?  Margaret  did 
not  know  what  she  wanted,  but  she  wanted 
something.  She  could  not  rest  contented  as  her 
father  did,  to  sit  over  a  book  and  see  through 
the  west  window  (when  he  chanced  to  look  up) 
the  flush  of  the  sunset  glories.  To  feel  that  aH 
this  was  going  on  in  the  sky,  and  nothing  going 
on  within,  nor  anything  that  concerned  herself 
in  earth  and  heaven,  was  not  to  be  borne. 

The  little  witlidrawing-room — the  East  Cham- 
ber, as  it  was  called,  though  its  window  faced  to 
the  south — was  already  all  dim.  deserted  by  the 
sunshine.  Lady  Jean's  work  lay  on  the  table, 
where  Margaret  had  thrown  it  in  the  afternoon, 
but  nothing  living,  nothing  that  could  return 
glance  for  glance  and  word  for  word.  It  was 
but  seven  o'clock,  and  it  would  be  ten  o'clock, 
ten  at  the  earliest,  before  night  began  to  fall. 
Margaret  got  her  hat  and  ran  down-stairs.  She 
did  not  know  what  she  should  do,  but  something 
she  must  do.  The  little  court  was  by  this  time 
quite  abandoned  by  the  sunshine,  the  body  of 
the  house  lying  between  it  and  the  west;  but  all 
the  sky  overhead  was  warm  with  pink  and  pur- 
ple, and  Bell  was  seated  outside,  with  her  knit- 
ting dropped  upon  her  lap.  Jeanie  had  gone 
out  to  milk  the  cow ;  and  even  old  John  had 
strolled  forth  with  his  hands  behind  him,  to  see, 
he  said,  how  the  "pitawties"  were  getting  on. 
The  "  pitawties  "  would  have  got  on  just  as  well 
without  his  supervision,  but  who  could  resist  the 
loveliness  of  the  evening  light? 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


15 


"  Our  Jolin  lie's  awa',  like  Isaac,  to  meditate 
among  the  fields  at  even-tide,"  Bell  said.  "  Eh, 
but  it's  an  auld  custom  that !  and  nae  doubt 
auld  Sawra,  the  auld  mither,  would  sit  out  at 
the  ha'  door,  and  ponder  in  her  mind  just  like 
me." 

"But  John  is  not  your  son,  Bell,"  said  Mar- 
garet, with  the  literal  understanding  of  youth. 

"Na,  I  never  had  a  son,  Miss  Margret,  nae- 
thing  but  wan  daughter.,  and  she's  been  married 
and  gone  from  me  this  twenty  years.  Eh,  my 
dear,  we  think  muckle  of  our  bairns,  but  they 
think  little  and  little  enough  of  us.  I  might  as 
well  have  had  nane  at  all  but  for  the  thought." 

To  this  Margaret  made  no  reply,  her  mind 
not  taking  in  the  maternal  relation.  She  stood 
musing,  with  her  eyes  afar,  while  Bell  went  on : 

"They  say  a  woman  has  no  after-pain  when 
her  first  bairn's  born,  because  of  the  Virgin 
Mary,  that  had  but  wan.  But  ay  me,  I've  had 
mony  an  after-pain,  and  her  too,  poor  woman, 
though  no  the  same  kind.  I  think  of  her  mony 
a  day,  Miss  Margret,  how  she  would  sit  and 
ponder  things  in  her  heart.  Eh,  they  would  be 
so  ill  to  understand — till  the  time  came." 

Still  Margaret  said  nothing.  The  old  woman 
pondered  the  past,  but  the  girl's  brain  was  all 
throbbing  and  thrilling  with  the  future.  The 
sound  of  something  coming  was  in  her  ears,  a 
ringing,  a  singing,  a  general  movement  and  flut- 
ter of  she  knew  not  what.  To  Bell  the  quiet 
was  everything;  to  Margaret,  she  herself  was 
the  universe,  and  all  the  horizon  was  not  too 
big  to  hold  the  rustling  pinions  and  approaching 
foot- balls  of  the  life  to  come. 

"I  think  I  will  take  a  walk  down  the  road," 
she  said,  suddenly,  over  Bell's  head. 

"Take  a  hap  with  you,  in  case  it  should  get 
cauld.  Sometimes  there's  a  wind  gets  up  when 
the  sun  goes  down.  And  you'll  no  bide  too 
long,  Miss  Margret,"  Bell  called  after  her  as  she 
ran  lightly  away. 

Margaret  did  not  care  for  the  wind  getting 
up,  nor  foresee  the  possibility  of  the  evening 
dullness  after  the  warmth  of  the  day.  It  was 
always  chilly  at  night  so  near  the  sea ;  but  sev- 
enteen years'  experience  to  the  contrai'y  had  not 
dispelled  Margaret's  conviction  that  as  the  weath- 
er was  at  one  bright  moment,  so  would  it  always 
be. 

The  road  down  which  Margaret  went  was  not 
very  attractive  as  a  road.  The  hedges  were  low 
and  the  country  bare.  It  is  true  that  even  the 
rigor  of  Fife  farming  had  not  cut  down  the  wild 
roses,  which  made  two  broken  lines  of  exquisite 
bloom  on  either  side  of  the  way.  Long  branch- 
es all  bloomed  to  the  very  tips  waved  about  in 
the  soft  air,  and  concealed  the  fact  that  the 
landscape  on  either  side  was  limited  to  a  potato- 
field  on  the  right  and  a  turnip-field  on  the  left. 
But  the  wild  roses  were  enough  for  Margaret. 
"Were  they  not  repeated  all  over  the  skies  in 
those  puffs  of  snowy  vapor  tinted  to  the  same 
rose  hue,  and  in  the  girl's  cheeks,  which  bloomed 
as  softly,  when  the  exercise,  and  the  flowering 
of  the  flowers,  and  the  reflection  of  the  sunset 
reflections  had  got  into  her  young  veins  ?  The 
color  and  sweetness  rapt  her  for  a  moment  in  an 
ecstasy,  mere  beauty  satisfying  her  as  it  does  a 
child.  But  human  nature,  even  in  a  child,  soon 
wants  something  more,  and  in  Margaret  the  de- 
mand came  very  quickly.     She  forgot  the  love- 


liness all  at  once,  and  remembered  the  some- 
thing that  was  wanted,  the  blank  that  required 
filling  up.  She  turned  aside  into  a  by-way,  along 
the  edge  of  a  cornfield,  witli  a  sigh.  The  corn 
was  not  high,  as  it  was  but  June,  and  when  she 
turned  her  face  away  from  the  sunset,  the  world 
paled  all  at  once  all  around  her. 

Margaret  went  on  more  slowly,  unconscious 
why.  She  went  on  hanging  her  young  head  till 
she  came  to  a  brook  at  the  end  of  the  field,  over 
which  there  was  but  a  plank  for  a  bridge.  The 
brook  (she  called  it  a  burn)  ran  between  two 
fields,  and  on  one  side  of  it  grew  an  old  ash-tree, 
its  trunk  lost  among  the  bushes  of  the  hedge. 
Here  a  post,  which  had  been  driven  into  the 
ground  to  support  the  homely  bridge,  made  a 
kind  of  seat  upon  which  the  wayfarer  might 
pause  and  look  at  the  homely  yet  pretty  Kirkton, 
with  its  old  church  on  the  brae.  Margaret  her- 
self had  intended  to  rest  upon  this  seat.  But 
when  she  was  half-way  across  the  plank,  a  sud- 
den sound  so  startled  her  that  she  lost  her  foot- 
ing; and  though  she  saved  herself  from  plunging 
into  the  burn  altogether  by  a  despairing  grasp  at 
the  bushes,  yet  she  got  her  foot  fast  imbedded 
in  the  damp  bank,  and  there  stuck,  to  her  infi- 
nite embarrassment  and  disgust.  Some  one 
started  from  the  seat  at  the  sound  of  the  sup- 
pressed cry  she  gave,  and  rushed  to  the  rescue. 
It  was,  need  it  be  said,  a  young  man  ?  yet  not 
exactly  of  heroic  guise. 

Margaret,  crimson  to  the  hair,  and  feeling  her- 
self the  most  gawky,  the  most  awkward,  the 
most  foolish  of  distressed  damsels,  her  ungloved 
hand  all  torn  and  pricked  with  the  thorns  of  the 
branch  which  she  had  caught  at,  her  foot  held 
fast  in  the  tenacious  clay,  did  not  know  what 
kind  of  hoyden,  what  rude  village  girl,  red  and 
blowzy,  she  must  have  looked  to  the  stranger. 
She  looked  a  nymph  out  of  the  poetic  woods,  a 
creature  out  of  the  poets,  a  celestial  vision  to 
him.  He  sprang  forward,  his  heart  beating,  to 
offer  his  hand  and  his  assistance.  Was  it  his 
fault?  He  feared  it  was  his  fault;  he  had  star- 
tled her,  moving  just  when  she  was  in  the  act  of 
crossing  the  plank.  He  made  her  a  thousand 
apologies.  It  was  all  his  doing ;  he  hoped  she 
would  forgive  him.  He  expended  himself  so  in 
apologies  that  Margaret  felt  it  necessary  to  apol- 
ogize too. 

"  It  was  me  that  was  silly, "  she  said.  ' '  Gen- 
erally, I  never  mind  a  sudden  sound.  What 
should  it  matter  ?  Nobody  would  do  me  harm, 
and  there's  no  wild  beasts,  that  I  should  be  so  sil- 
ly.    Oh,  it's  nothing ;  and  it  was  all  my  fault." 

"You  are  the  queen  in  your  own  country. 
There  should  be  nothing  in  your  path  to  startle 
you." 

"Oh  no,  I'm  not  the  queen,"  said  Margaret, 
laughing.  "I  have  to  take  my  chance  like 
other  folk.  You  are  a  stranger  here,"  she  said, 
with  friendly  innocence.  The  fact  that  she  was, 
if  not  the  queen,  as  she  said,  yet  at  least  a  prin- 
cess, the  first  young  lady  hereabouts,  and  known 
to  everybody  as  such,  made  her  friendly  and 
made  her  bold.  Supremacy  has  many  agreeable 
accessories.  The  young  man,  who  had  taken  off 
his  hat  and  held  it  in  his  hand,  half  in  respect, 
half  in  awkwardness,  here  blushed  more  deeply 
than  she  had  done  when  she  saw  him  first. 

"I  am  not  a  stranger,  Miss  Margaret.  I  am 
Robert  Glen,  whom  you  used  to  play  with  when 


16 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


you  were  a  little  girl ;  but  I  cannot  expect  you 
to  remember  me,  for  I  have  been  long  away." 

"Oh,  Rob!"  she  cried.  Margaret  was  de- 
lighted. The  vivid  color  came  flushing  back  to 
her  cheeks  out  of  pure  pleasure.  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  him.  He  had  not  been  so  respect- 
ful when  they  had  parted,  which  was  ten  years 
ago.  "Indeed,  I  mind  you  quite  well,  though  I 
should  not  have  known  you  after  all  this  long 
time ;  but  how  did  you  know  me  ?" 

"The  first  moment  I  saw  you,"  he  said,  "and 
there  is  nothing  wonderful  in  that.  There  are 
many  like  me,  but  only  one  Miss  Margaret,  here 
or  anywhere  else." 

The  last  words  he  murmured  in  an  undertone, 
but  Margaret  made  them  out.  She  laughed,  not 
in  ridicule,  but  in  pleasure,  just  touched  with 
amusement.  How  funny  to  see  him  again,  and 
that  he  should  know  her;  and  still  more  funny, 
though  not  disagreeable,  that  he  should  speak  to 
her  so. 

"I  was  vexed,"  she  said,  "  very  vexed  that  a 
stranger  should  see  me  so,  my  shoe  all  dirty  and 
my  hand  all  torn — it  looked  so  strange ;  but  I 
am  not  vexed  now,  since  it  is  only  you,  and  not 
a  stranger.  Just  look  at  me — such  a  figure !  and 
what  will  Bell  say  ?" 

"  You  have  still  Bell  ?" 

"Still  Bell !  who  should  we  have  but  Bell?" 
cried  Margaret,  the  idea  of  such  a  domestic 
change  as  the  displacement  of  Bell  never  having 
so  much  as  crossed  her  fancy.  Then  she  added, 
quickly,  "But  tell  me,  for  I  have  not  heard  of 
you  for  such  a  long,  long  time.  You  went  to  the 
college,  Rob?" 

She  said  his  name  unadvisedly  in  the  first  im- 
pulse ;  but  looking  up  at  him,  and  seeing  him 
look  at  her  in  a  way  she  was  unused  to,  Marga- 
ret's countenance  flamed  once  more  with  a  mo- 
mentary blush.  She  shrank  a  little.  She  said 
to  herself  that  he  was  not  a  little  boy  now  as  he 
used  to  be,  and  that  she  would  never  call  him 
Rob  again. 

"Yes,  Miss  Margaret,  I  went  to  the  college. 
I  went  through  all  the  curriculum,  and  took  my 
degree  sometime  ago." 

"Then  are  you  a  minister  now?" 

Margaret  spoke  with  a  little  chill  in  her  tone. 
She  thought  that  to  be  a  minister  implied  a  with- 
drawal from  life  of  a  very  melancholy  and  seri- 
ous description,  and  that  she  might  not  be  able 
to  keep  up  easy  relations  with  poor  Rob  if  he 
had  passed  that  Rubicon.  She  looked  at  him 
earnestly,  with  a  great  deal  of  gravity  in  her 
face.  Margaret  had  not  known  many  ministers 
close  at  hand,  and  never  any  so  nearly  on  a  lev- 
el with  her  own  youthful  unimportance  as  Rob 
Glen. 

"No," he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "No.  My 
poor  mother !  I  will  never  give  her  the  pleasure 
I  ought.  I  am  not  a  minister,  and  never  will  be. 
I  say  it  with  sorrow  and  shame." 

"Oh!"  cried  Margaret,  growing  so  much  in- 
terested that  her  breast  heaved  and  her  breath 
came  quick.  "  Oh !  and  what  was  that  for,  Mr. 
— Rob  ?     You  have  not  done  anything  wrong  ?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  ;  "  nothing  wick- 
ed, and  yet  perhaps  you  will  think  it  wicked.  I 
cannot  believe  just  what  everybody  else  believes. 
There  are  papers  and  things  to  sign,  doctrines — " 

Margaret  put  her  hands  together  timidly  and 
looked  into  his  face. 


"You  are  not  an  infidel?"'  she  said,  with  a 
look  of  awe  and  pain. 

"No;  lam — I  don't  quite  know  what.  I  don't 
examine  too  closely,  Miss  Margaret.  I  believe 
as  much  as  I  can,  and  I  don't  think  anybody 
does  more  ;  but  I  can't  sign  papers,  can  I,  when  I 
do  not  know  whether  they  are  true  or  not  ?  I 
cannot  do  it.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  cannot  say 
I  believe  what  I  don't  believe." 

"No,"  said  Margaret,  doubtfully.  This  was 
something  entirely  out  of  her  way,  and  she  did 
not  know  how  to  treat  it.  She  made  a  hurried 
sweep  over  her  own  experiences.  "I  always 
think  it  is  because  I  don't  understand,"  she  said  ; 
and  then,  after  another  pause,  "When  papa  says 
things  I  don't  understand,  I  just  hold  my  tongue." 

"But  I  am  obliged  to  say  yes  or  no,  and  I 
can't  say  yes.  I  hope  you  will  not  blame  me, 
Miss  Margaret ;  that  would  make  me  very  un- 
happy. I  have  often  thought  you  were  one  that 
would  be  sure  to  understand  what  my  position 
was." 

Margaret  did  not  ask  herself  why  it  was  that 
she  was  expected  to  understand ;  but  she  was 
vaguely  flattered  that  he  should  think  her  appro- 
bation so  important. 

"  Me  !  what  do  I  know  ?"  she  said.  "  I  have 
not  been  at  the  college,  like  you.  I  have  never 
learned  anything ;"  and,  for  almost  the  first  time, 
it  occurred  to  Margaret  that  there  might  be  some 
reason  in  the  animadversions  and  lamentations 
over  her  ignorance,  of  her  sisters  Grace  and 
Jean. 

"You  know  things  without  learning." 

"Oh ! — but  you  are  making  a  fool  of  me,  like 
papa, "  cried  Margaret.  "And  what  are  you  do- 
ing now,  if  you  are  not  a  minister  ?  You  have 
never  been  back  again  till  now  at  the  Farm  ?" 

"I  am  doing  just  nothing,  that  is  the  worst 
of  it.     I  cannot  dig,  and  to  beg  I  am  ashamed." 

"Beg!"  Shelookedathimwith  a  merry  laugh. 
He  was  what  Bell  would  have  called  "  very  well 
put  on."  Margaret  saw,  by  instinct,  though  she 
was  without  any  experience,  that  Rob  Glen  could 
not  have  been  a  gentleman  ;  but  yet  he  was  well 
dressed,  and  very  superior  to  everybody  else 
about  the  Kirkton.  "  I  suppose  you  have  come 
home  on  a  visit,  and  to  rest." 

"  Yes ;  but,  Miss  Margaret,  all  this  time  your 
foot  is  wet  and  your  hand  is  scratched.  Will 
you  come  to  the  house  ?  Shall  I  go  and  get  you 
"dry  shoes  from  Bell?     What  can  I  do?" 

"Oh,  nothing, "said Margaret ;  "do  you  think 
I  never  got  my  feet  wet  before  ?  I  will  change 
them  when  I  get  in.  But  I  think  I  will  go  home 
now.  What  have  you  been  doing?  01),  draw- 
ing !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  cry  of  delight.  She 
seized  the  book  which  he  half  showed,  half  with- 
drew. "Oh,  I  should  like  to  see  it — it  is  the 
Kirkton!  Oh,  I  would  like  to  draw  like  that! 
Oh,"  cried  Margaret,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath, 
and  all  her  heart  in  it,  "what  I  would  give!" 
and  then  she  remembered  that  she  had  nothing 
to  give,  and  stopped  short,  her  lips  half  open, 
her  eyes  aflame. 

"Will  you  let  me  show  you  how  to  do  it? 
It  would  make  me  so  happy.  It  is  as  easy  as 
possible.     You  have  only  to  try." 

Margaret  did  not  make  any  reply  in  her  ea- 
gerness. She  turned  over  the  book  with  delight. 
The  sketches  were  not  badly  done.  There  was 
the   Kirkton,  breezy   and  sunny,  with  its   cold 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


17 


tones  of  blue;  there  were  all  the  glimpses  of 
Earl's-hall  that  could  be  had  at  a  distance;  there 
was  the  estuary  and  the  sand-banks,  and  the  old 
pale  city  on  the  headland.  But  Margaret  had 
never  come  across  anything  in  the  shape  of  an 
artist  before,  and  this  new  capability  burst  upon 
her  as  something  more  enviable,  more  delightful 
than  any  occupation  she  had  as  yet  ever  known. 

"I  have  a  great  many  more," said  the  young 
man.  "If  you  will  come  to  the  house,  or  here  to 
the  burn  to-morrow,  I  will  show  you  some  that 
are  better  than  these." 

"Oh  yes,  I  will  come,"  said  Margaret,  with- 
out hesitation.  "I  would  like  to  see  them.  I 
never  saw  anything  so  beautiful.  The  Kiikton 
its  very  self,  and  Earl's-hall,  old  Earl's -ball. 
Papa  says  it  will  tumble  down  about  our  ears  ; 
but  it  never  can  quite  tumble  down  and  come  to 
an  end  while  there's  that  I"  the  girl  said.  If  the 
artist  had  been  Turner  himself  he  could  not 
have  had  finer  praise. 

And  she  let  him  walk  the  length  of  the  field 
with  her,  telling  her  about  his  wonderful  art — 
then  ran  home,  her  heart  beating,  her  mind 
roused,  and  amused,  and  delighted.  The  slow 
twilight  was  just  beginning  to  draw  a  magical 
silvery  veil  over  earth  and  sky.  Margaret  ran 
home  hurried  and  breathless,  occupied  to  the  full, 
conscious  of  no  more  deficiencies. 

"  Have  you  been  out  all  this  time,  Miss  Mar- 
gret?"  said  Bell,  just  rising  from  her  seat  by 
the  door,  "  and  you've  had  your  foot  in  the 
burn.  Go  quick  and  change,  my  bonnie  pet. 
I've  been  ower  lang  in  the  court,  and  the  dew's 
falling,  and  a'  the  stairch  out  o'  my  cap.  We're 
twa  fuils  for  the  bonny  gloamin',  me  and  you." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Margaret  went  up-stairs  with  her  heart  and 
her  feet  equally  light.  She  was  full  of  excitement 
and  pleasure.  It  was  true  that  she  had  not 
many  excitements  in  her  life,  especially  of  a 
pleasurable  kind ;  but  those  she  had  encounter- 
ed had  not  been  straightway  communicated  to 
some  one,  as  the  happy  privilege  of  her  age  in 
most  cases.  Out  of  sheer  inability  to  contain  her 
sentiments  and  sensations  in  one  small  bosom, 
she  had  indeed  often  poured  forth  innocent  dis- 
closures into  the  ear  of  Bell.  And  when  these 
concerned  anything  that  troubled  her,  specially 
the  remarks  and  criticisms  of  her  sisters,  Bell 
had  been  the  best  of  confidants,  backing  her  up 
steadfastly,  and  increasing  her  indignation  by 
the  sympathy  of  warm  and  strong  resentment. 
But  of  other  troubles  and  pleasures,  Bell  had 
not  been  equally  understanding.  And  she  was 
the  last  person,  Margaret  felt,  to  whom  she 
could  tell  the  story  of  this  evening's  encounter. 
Bell  would  not  have  been  amused  and  interest- 
ed like  Margaret.  She  would  have  opened  great 
eyes  of  astonishment  and  exclaimed  upon  the 
audacity  of  Rob  Glen  in  venturing  to  approach 
Miss  Margaret.  "Rob  Glen!  who  was  he  to 
proffer  his  acquaintance  to  the  young  lady  of 
Earl's-ha'?"  Margaret  knew  as  well  how  Bell 
would  have  said  this,  as  if  she  had  actually  de- 
livered the  tirade.  Therefore  the  girl  made  no 
mention  of  her  new  friend.     She  ran  up-stairs, 


where  she  found  Jeanie  lighting  a  pair  of  can- 
dles on  the  table  in  the  East  Chamber. 

"I've  lighted  Sir  Ludovic's  lights,  and  will 
you  want  anything  more  the  nicht,  Miss  Marga- 
ret?" said  Jeanie,  her  fair  fresh  face  giving  out 
more  light  than  did  the  candles. 

"Oh,  Jeanie!" — the  girl  began,  but  then  she 
checked  herself.  No,  she  would  not  tell  any  one, 
why  should  she  ?  Better  to  keep  it  in  her  own 
mind,  and  then  there  would  be  no  harm.  Mar- 
garet was  not  often  scolded,  but  she  had  a  mis- 
giving that  she  might  come  in  the  way  of  that 
unusual  discipline  were  she  too  communicative 
on  the  subject  of  her  long  conversation  with  Rob 
Glen. 

She  sat  down  in  the  East  Chamber  alone,  her 
face  and  her  eyes  glowing.  How  pleasant  it  was 
to  have  an  adventure !  The  little  white-panelled 
room  was  but  poorly  lighted  by  the  two  candles. 
The  window  still  full  of  twilight,  clouds  of  gray 
here  and  there,  with  a  lingering  tinge  upon  them 
of  the  sun  or  its  reflections,  hung  like  a  great 
picture  on  the  wall.  There  were  one  or  two  act- 
ual pictures,  but  they  were  small,  and  dark,  and 
old,  not  very  decipherable  at  any  time,  and  en- 
tirely invisible  now.  On  the  table,  in  the  speck 
of  light  which  formed  the  centre  of  the  room,  of 
itself  a  picture  had  there  been  any  one  to  see, 
lay  Lady  Jean's  old  work,  with  its  faded  colors, 
in  pretty  harmony  with  all  the  scene  around ; 
and  centre  of  the  centre,  Margaret's  face,  not 
faded,  but  so  soft  in  its  freshness,  so  delicate  in 
girlish  bloom.  She  sat  with  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  her  face  set  in  the  palms  of  her  hands,  her 
eyes  looking  into  the  light,  making  the  two  little 
flames  of  the  candles  into  stars  reflected  in  their 
clearness.  A  half- formed  smile  played  about 
the  soft  curve  of  her  lips.  How  pleasant  it  was 
to  have  an  adventure  at  all!  And  how  agreea- 
ble the  kind  of  the  adventure!  Rob  Glen  !  yes, 
she  remembered  him  quite  well  when  she  was 
seven  years  old.  He  had  been  twelve,  a  big  boy, 
and  very  kind  to  little  Miss  Peggy. 

The  farm,  which  was  a  small  farm,  not  equal 
to  the  large  farms  of  wealthy  Fife,  a  little  bit  of 
a  place,  which  his  mother  had  kept  up  when  she 
became  a  widow,  was  close  to  Earl's-hall ;  and 
Margaret  recollected  how  "  fond  "  she  had  been 
of  her  playfellow  in  these  old  days,  very  fond  of 
him  !  before  he  went  into  St.  Andrews  to  school, 
and  then  away  to  his  uncle  in  Glasgow  (it  all 
came  back  upon  her)  to  college.  She  remem- 
bered even,  now  she  came  to  think  of  it,  the 
scoffs  she  had  heard  directed  by  Bell  and  John 
at  the  Glens  in  general,  who  had  not  thought  St. 
Andrews  good  enough  for  their  son,  but  had  to 
send  him  to  Glasgow,  to  set  him  up !  And  here 
he  was  again.  Margaret  remembered  how  he 
had  carried  her  across  the  ditches  and  muddy 
places,  and  how  she  had  kissed  him  when  he 
went  away ;  she  blushed  at  the  thought,  and 
laughed  a  little.  And  now  he  had  come  back ! 
and  he  could  draw  !  That  was  the  most  interest- 
ing of  all.  He  could  make  beautiful  pictures  of 
everything  he  saw. 

The  Kirkton,  poor  little  place,  had  never  look- 
ed so  attractive  before.  It  had  been  only  a  lit- 
tle village  of  no  interest,  which  sisters  Jean  and 
Grace  held  in  the  utmost  contempt,  driving  Mar- 
garet wild  with  suppressed  rage  by  the  compari- 
son they  made  between  the  Scotch  hamlet  and 
their  English  villages ;  and  now  it  was  a  .pict- 


18 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


nre !  She  wondered  what  they  would  think  of 
it  now.  Margaret  gazed  into  the  flame  of  the 
candles  and  seemed  to  see  it  hanging  upon  a  vi- 
sionary background.  A  beautiful  picture :  the 
gray  old  church  with  its  rustic  tombs,  and  all  the 
houses  clustered  below,  where  people  were  living, 
waiting  their  advance  and  preferment  into  the 
grassy  graves  above.  Here  was  the  real  mission 
of  art  accomplished  by  the  humblest  artist — to 
make  of  the  common  and  well-known  a  dazzling 
undiscovered  glory.  Only  the  Kirkton,  yet  a 
picture !  and  all  the  doing  of  the  old  friend  equal- 
ly glorified  and  changed — Rob  Glen.  Margaret 
was  more  pleasantly  excited,  more  amused,  more 
roused  in  mind  and  imagination  than  perhaps 
she  had  ever  been  in  her  life. 

A  stirring  in  the  long  room  close  by  roused 
her  to  a  sense  of  her  duties.  That  windowful 
of  sky  had  darkened ;  it  was  almost  night :  as 
much  as  it  ever  is  night  in  Scotland  in  June — a 
silvery  night,  with  no  blackness  in  it  but  a  vague 
whiteness,  a  soft  celestial  reflection  of  the  de- 
parted day.  Evidently  it  was  late,  time  to  go  to 
bed.  Margaret  pushed  the  door  open  which  led 
into  the  long  room.  Sir  Ludovic  was  closing 
his  book.  He  kept  early  hours;  for  it  was  his 
habit  to  wake  very  early  in  the  morning,  as  is  so 
usual  to  old  people.  He  turned  to  her  with  a 
smile  upon  his  face. 

' '  My  Peggy,  you  are  late  ;  what  has  kept  you 
amused  so  long  to-night  ?  It  is  you  generally 
who  let  me  know  when  it  is  time  for  bed.  What 
have  you  been  doing  ?" 

"Nothing,  papa;"  but  Margaret  blushed. 
However,  as  she  blushed  so  often  this  was  noth- 
ing to  remark. 

"Put  it  up  upon  the  shelf,"  he  said ;  "  I  have 
done  with  that  one.  It  is  heavy  for  you  to  lift, 
my  dear.  It  is  a  sign  that  I  am  an  old  man,  a 
very  old  man,  my  little  Peggy,  that  I  allow  you  to 
do  everything  for  me;  but  at  the  same  time  there 
is  a  suitability  in  it.  The  young  should  learn  to 
serve.  When  you  are  a  full-blown  lady,  it  is  then 
that  all  the  men  you  meet  will  serve  you." 

"I  want  no  men  to  serve  me,  papa.  When  I 
am  middle-aged,  as  you  say,  I  will  have  no  ser- 
vants but  women.  Is  not  Jeanie  better  to  hand 
you  your  plate  and  fill  you  your  wine  than  old 
John?" 

"Old  John  and  I  have  grown  old  together, 
my  Peggy  ;  but  I  think  your  taste  is  very  natu- 
ral. A  young  woman  is  a  pleasanter  object  than 
an  old  man." 

"I  did  not  mean  that,"  she  cried,  with  com- 
punction; "  you,  papa,  you  are  the  handsomest 
of  us  all.  There  is  no  one  to  match  you ;  but 
the  like  of  Jeanie  looks  so  clean  and  fresh,  and 
John  in  his  black  clothes — " 

"Looks  like  an  old  Cameronian  minister,  that 
is  true ;  but,  my  Peggy,  you  must  not  judge  by 
appearances.  Before  you  are — middle-aged,  as 
you  say,  you  will  learn  that  appearances  are  not 
to  be  trusted  to.  And,  by-the-way,  what  is  it 
to  be  middle-aged  ?  For  my  instruction  I  would 
like  to  know." 

Margaret  paused  to  think.  She  stood  looking 
at  him  with  the  big  book  in  her  hand,  leaning  it 
against  the  table,  embracing  it  with  one  arm ; 
then,  naturally,  as  she  moved,  her  eyes  sought  the 
uncovered  window,  and  went  afar  out  into  the 
silvery  clouds  to  find  her  answer.  As  for  her 
father,  he  sat  with  his  ivory  hands  spread  out  on 


the  arms  of  his  chair,  looking  at  her  with  a  smile. 
Her  slimness  and  gracefulness  and  soft-breathing 
youth  were  a  refreshment  to  him.  It  was  like 
the  dew  falling,  like  the  morning  breaking  to  the 
old  man ;  and,  besides  the  sense  of  freshness  and 
new  life,  it  was  a  perpetual  amusement  to  him  to 
watch  the  workings  of  her  unaccustomed  mind, 
and  the  thoughts  that  welled  up  in  the  creature's 
face.  He  had  perhaps  never  watched  the  growth 
of  a  young  soul  before,  and  he  had  never  got  over 
his  first  surprise  and  amusement  at  the  idea  that 
such  a  little  being,  only  the  other  day  a  baby, 
only  the  other  day  running  after  a  ball  like  a  kit- 
ten, should  think  or  have  opinions  at  all. 

"Middle-aged,"  said  Margaret,  with  her  pret- 
ty head  upon  one  side,  and  great  gravity  in  her 
face.  "  Perhaps,  papa,  you  will  not  have  the 
same  idea  as  I  have.  Would  it  be  twenty-five? 
That  is  not  old,  of  course ;  but  then  it  is  not 
young  either.  If  you  were  going  to  have  any 
sense,  I  think  you  would  have  it  by  that  age." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  my  Peggy  ?  That  is  but  a 
little  way  to  travel  to  get  sense.  Where  is  sense 
to  be  found,  and  can  you  tell  me  the  place  of 
understanding  ?  It  would  be  easily  learned  if  it 
could  be  got  at  twenty-five." 

"  Oh,  but  twenty-five  is  a  very  good  age,  papa. 
Me — I  am  only  seventeen." 

"And  you  think  you  have  a  good  deal  of  sense 
already,  and  have  found  out  whereabouts  wisdom 
dwells?"  said  Sir  Ludovic ;  "  then,  to  be  sure,  in 
eight  years  more  you  will  have  goue  a  long  way 
toward  perfection." 

"  Papa,  you  are  making  a  fool  of  me  again." 

"No,  my  dear,  only  admiring  and  wondering. 
It  is  such  a  long  time  since  I  was  twenty-five ; 
and  I  am  not  half  so  sure  about  a  great  many 
things  as  I  was  then.  Perhaps  you  are  right, 
my  little  Peggy ;  one  changes  one's  opinions  of- 
ten after — but  it  may  be  that  just  then  you  are  at 
the  crown  of  the  brae.  Far  be  it  from  me  to 
pronounce  a  judgment.  Dante  puts  it  ten  years 
later." 

"But  what  Dante  means,"  said  Margaret, 
boldly — for,  ignorant  as  she  was,  she  had  read 
translations  of  many  things,  even  of  the  Divine 
Comedy,  not  having,  perhaps,  anything  more 
amusing  to  read,  which  was  the  origin  of  most 
of  the  better  knowledge  she  possessed — "what 
Dante  means  was  the  half  of  life,  when  it  was 
half  done." 

"Ay,  ay,  that  was  it,"  said  the  old  man,  "  half 
done !  yet  you  see  here  I  am,  at  seventy-five, 
still  in  everybody's  way." 

"Oh,  papa,"  she  said,  fixing  upon  him  re- 
proachful eyes  which  two  tears  flooded,  brim- 
ming the  crystal  vessels  over — "oh,  papa!" 

"  Well,  my  Peggy ;  I  wonder  if  it  is  the  bet- 
ter for  you  that  your  old  father  should  live  on  ? 
Well,  my  dear,  it's  better  for  some  things.  The 
old  nest  is  gray,  but  it's  warm.  Though  Jean 
and  Grace,  you  know — Jean  and  Grace,  and  even 
Mrs.  Ludovic,  my  dear,  all  of  them  think  it's  very 
bad  for  you.  You  would  be  better,  they  tell  me, 
in  a  fine  boarding-school  in  London." 

"Papa!" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  send  you  away,  my  lit- 
tle Peggy,  not  till  the  old  man's  gone — a  selfish 
old  man.  You  must  be  a  good  girl,  and  prove  me 
right  to  everybody  concerned.  Now,  good-night, 
and  run  away  to  your  bed ;  and  you  can  tell 
John." 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


19 


"  Good-night,  papa.  I  will  be  a  good  girl," 
she  said,  half  laughing,  with  the  tears  in  her 
eyes,  as  she  had  done  when  she  was  a  child ; 
and  she  made  a  little  pause  when  she  kissed  him, 
and  asked  herself  whether  she  should  speak  to 
him  about  Rob  Glen,  and  ask  if  he  would  like  to 
see  the  pictures?  Surely  to  see  such  pictures 
would  be  a  pleasure  to  anybody.  But  something 
kept  Margaret  silent.  She  could  not  tell  what 
it  was;  and  in  the  end  she  went  away  to  tell 
John,  without  a  word  about  her  old  acquaint- 
ance. Down-stairs  she  could  hear  Bell  already 
fastening  the  shutters,  and  Jeanie  passed  her  on 
the  stair,  fresh  and  smiling,  though  sleepy,  with 
a  "Gude-nicht,  Miss  Margret." 

"Good-night,  Jeanie ;  and  you'll  call  me  ear- 
ly?" she  said;  upon  which  Jeanie  shook  her 
head  with  a  soft  smile. 

"If  you  were  aye  as  ready  to  rise  as  me  to 
cry  upon  you!" 

"  I  will  rise  to-morrow,"  said  Margaret.  How 
good  she  was  going  to  be  to-morrow !  Light  as 
a  bird  she  ran  down  to  the  old  couple  down- 
stairs. "John,  papa  is  ready.  You  are  to  go 
to  him  this  very  minute.  I  stopped  on  the  stair 
to  speak  to  Jeanie,  and  papa  will  be  waiting." 

John  answered  with  a  grunt  and  groan.  "And 
me,  I'm  to  pay  for  it  because  little  miss  tarries !" 

Bell  pushed  him  out  of  the  kitchen  with  a 
laugh.  "  Gae  away  with  you, "  she  said.  "  Miss 
Margret,  my  man  John  would  stand  steady  and 
be  cut  in  sma'  pieces  with  a  pair  o'  scissors  soon- 
er than  that  any  harm  should  come  to  you.  But 
his  bark  is  aye  waur  than  his  bite.  And  what 
have  you  been  doing  all  this  night,  my  bonnie 
bird?  I've  neither  seen  your  face  nor  heard 
your  fit  upon  the  stair." 

"Oh,  I  was  thinking,"  said  Margaret,  after  a 
pause;  "thinking — " 

"Lord  bless  us  and  save  us,  when  the  like  of 
you  begin  thinking !  And  what  were  you  think- 
ing upon,  my  bonnie  dear?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Margaret,  musing.  She  had 
fallen  back  into  the  strain  of  her  usual  fanciful 
thoughts. 

"  Naething  ?  That's  just  the  maist  dangerous 
subject  you  can  think  upon,"  said  Bell,  shaking 
her  head;  "that'sjust  what  I  dinna  like.  Think 
upon  whatever  you  please,  but  never  upon  nae- 
thing, Miss  Margret.  Will  I  come  with  you 
and  see  you  to  your  bed  ?  It's  lang  since  I've 
put  a  brush  upon  your  bonnie  hair." 

"  Oh,  my  hair  is  quite  right,  Bell.  I  brush  it 
myself  every  night." 

"And  think  about  naething  all  the  time.  Na, 
Miss  Margret,  you  maunna  do  that.  I've  gath- 
ered the  fire,  and  shut  the  shutters,  and  put  a' 
thing  ready  for  Sir  Ludovic's  tea  in  the  morning. 
Is  there  onything  mair  ?  No,  not  a  thing,  not  a 
thing.  Now  come,  my  lamb,  and  I'll  put  you  to 
your  bed." 

Margaret  made  no  objection.  She  could  fol- 
low her  own  fancies  just  as  easily  while  Bell 
was  talking  as  when  all  was  silent  round  her. 
They  went  together  up  the  winding  stair,  Bell 
toiling  along  with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  which 
flickered  picturesquely,  now  here,  now  there, 
upon  the  spiral  steps.  Margaret's  room  was  on 
the  upper  story,  and  to  reach  it  you  had  to  trav- 
erse another  long  hall,  running  the  whole  length 
of  the  building,  like  the  long  room  below.  This 
room  was  scarcely  furnished  at  all.    It  had  some 


old  tapestry  hanging  on  the  walls,  an  old  harpsi- 
chord in  a  corner,  and  bits  of  invalided  furniture 
which  were  beyond  use. 

"Eh,  the  bonnie  dances  and  the  grand  ladies 
I've  seen  in  this  room!"  Bell  said,  shaking  her 
head,  as  she  paused  for  breath.  The  light  of  the 
one  little  candle  scarcely  showed  the  long  line  of 
the  wall,  but  displayed  a  quivering  of  the  wind  in 
the  tapestry,  as  if  the  figures  on  it  had  been  set 
in  motion.  "  Lord  bless  us !"  said  Bell.  "  Oh, 
ay,  I  ken  very  well  it's  naething  but  the  wind ; 
but  I've  never  got  the  better  o'  my  first  fright. 
The  first  time  I  was  in  this  grand  banqueting- 
hall — and  oh,  but  it  was  a  grand  hall  then  !  nev- 
er onything  so  grand  had  the  like  of  me  a  chance 
to  see.  I  thought  the  Queen's  Grace  herself 
could  not  possess  a  mair  beautiful  place." 

"If  it  was  any  use,"  said  Margaret,  with  a 
sigh. 

"  Oh,  whisht,  my  bonnie  bird.  It's  use  to 
show  what  great  folk  the  Leslies  were  wance 
upon  a  time,  and  that's  what  makes  us  a'  proud. 
There's  none  in  the  county  that  should  go  out  o' 
the  room  or  into  the  room  afore  you,  Miss  Mar- 
gret.    You've  the  auldest  blood." 

"But  what  good  does  that  do  if  I  am  the 
youngest  girl?"  said  Margaret,  half  piqued,  half 
laughing. 

She  was  proud  of  her  race,  but  the  empty  halls 
were  chill.  She  did  not  wait  for  any  more  re- 
marks on  Bell's  part,  but  led  the  way  into  her 
room,  which  opened  off  this  banqueting-hall,  a 
turret  room  of  a  kind  of  octagon  shape,  panelled 
like  all  the  rest.  It  looked  out  through  its  deep- 
est window  on  entirely  a  different  scene,  on  the 
moonlight  rising  pale  on  the  eastern  side,  and 
the  whitening  of  the  sea,  the  tremolar  della  ma- 
rina, was  in  the  distance,  the  silvery  glimmer 
and  movement  of  the  great  broad  line  of  unpeo- 
pled water. 

The  girl  stood  and  looked  out  while  the  old 
woman  lighted  the  candles  on  the  table.  How 
wide  the  world  was,  all  full  of  infinite  sky  and 
sea,  not  to  speak  of  the  steady  ground  under  foot, 
which  was  so  much  less  great.  Margaret  look- 
ed out,  her  eyes  straying  far  off  to  the  horizon, 
the  limit  beyond  which  there  was  more  and  more 
water,  more  and  more  widening  firmament. 
She  was  very  reluctant  to  have  it  shut  out.  To 
draw  down  a  blind,  and  retire  within  the  little 
round  of  those  walls,  what  a  shrinking  and  les- 
sening of  everything  ensued !  "  But  it's  more 
sheltered  like;  it's  no  so  cold  and  so  far,"  said 
Bell,  with  a  little  shiver.  She  was  not  so  fond 
of  the  horizon.  The  thick  walls  that  kept  out 
the  cold,  the  blind  that  shut  out  that  blue  open- 
ing into  infinity,  were  prospect  enough  for  Bell. 
She  made  her  young  lady  sit  down,  and  undid 
the  loops  of  her  silken  hair.  This  hair  was 
Bell's  pride  ;  so  fine,  so  soft,  so  delicate  in  text- 
ure, not  like  the  gold  wire,  all  knotted  and  curly, 
on  Jeanie's  good-looking  head,  who  was  the  oth- 
er representative  of  youth  in  the  hour.e.  "Eh, 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  get  my  hands  among  it,"  said 
Bell,  letting  the  long  soft  tresses  ripple  over  her 
old  fingers.  How  proud  she  was  of  its  length 
and  thickness!  She  stood  and  brushed  and 
talked  over  Margaret's  head,  telling  her  a  hun- 
dred stories,  which  the  girl,  half  hearing,  half 
replying,  yet  wholly  absorbed  in  her  own  fancies, 
had  yet  a  certain  vague  pleasure  in  as  they  float- 
ed over  her. 


20 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


It  was  good  to  have  Bell  there,  to  feel  the 
touch  of  homely  love  about  her,  and  the  sound 
of  the  voice  which  was  as  familiar  as  her  own 
soft  breath.  Bell  was  pleased  too.  She  was 
not  offended  when  she  perceived  that  her  nurs- 
ling answered  somewhat  at  random.  "What  is 
she  but  a  bairn?  and  bairns'  ways  are  wonderful 
when  their  bit  noddles  begin  working,"  Bell  said, 
with  the  heavenly  tolerance  of  wise  affection. 
She  went  out  of  the  room  afterward,  with  her 
Scotch  delicacy,to  give  Margaret  time  to  say  her 
prayers,  then  came  back  and  covered  her  care- 
fully with  her  hard-working  hand,  softened  mi- 
raculously by  love.  "And  the  Lord  bless  my 
white  doo,"  the  old  woman  said.  There  were 
no  kisses  or  caresses  exchanged,  which  was  not 
the  habit  of  the  reserved  Scotchwoman  ;  but  her 
hand  lingered  on  the  coverlet,  "happing"  her 
darling.  Summer  nights  are  sweet  in  Fife,  but 
not  ovenvarm.  And  thus  ended  the  long  mid- 
summer day. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Robert  Glen,  whose  reappearance  had  so 
interested  and  excited  the  innocent  mind  of 
Margaret  Leslie,  was  no  other  than  the  farmer's 
son,  in  point  of  locality  her  nearest  neighbor, 
but  in  every  other  respect,  childhood  being  fairly 
over,  as  far  removed  from  her  as  if  she  had  been 
a  princess,  instead  of  the  child  of  an  impoverish- 
ed country  gentleman.  In  childhood  it  had  not 
been  so.  Little  Margaret  had  played  with  Rob 
in  the  hay-fields,  and  sat  by  him  while  he  fished 
in  the  burn,  and  had  rides  upon  the  horses  he 
was  leading  to  the  water,  many  a  day  in  that  in- 
nocent period.  She  had  been  as  familiar  about 
the  farm  "as  if  it  had  belonged  to  her,"  Mrs. 
Glen  bad  said,  and  had  shared  the  noonday 
"piece"  of  her  little  cavalier  often  enough,  as 
well  as  his  sports.  Even  Bell  had  found  noth- 
ing to  say  against  this  intimacy. 

The  Glens  were  very  decent  folks,  not  on  a 
level  with  the  great  farmers  of  Fife,  yet  well  to 
do  and  well  doing  ;  and  Rob's  devoted  care  of 
the  little  lady  had  saved  Bell,  as  she  herself  ex- 
pressed it,  "many  a  trail ;"  but  in  the  ten  years 
from  seven  to  seventeen  many  changes  occur. 
Rob,  who  was  the  youngest,  had  been  the  clever 
boy  of  the  family  at  the  farm.  His  mother, 
proud  of  his  early  achievements,  had  sent  him  to 
St.  Andrews  to  the  excellent  schools  there,  with 
vague  notions  of  advancement  to  come.  That 
he  should  be  a  minister  was,  of  course,  her  chief 
lesire,  and  the  highest  hope  of  her  ambition ; 
but  at  this  early  period  there  was  no  absolute 
necessity  for  a  decision.  He  might  be  a  writer 
if  he  proved  to  have  no  "call"  for  the  ministry  ; 
or  he  might  be  a  doctor  if  his  mind  took  that 
turn.  However,  when  he  had  reached  the  age 
at  which  in  Scotland  the  college  supplants  the 
school  (too  early,  as  everybody  knows),  Rob  was 
quite  of  opinion  that  he  had  a  call  to  be  a  min- 
ister; and  he  would  have  gone  on  naturally  to 
his  college  career  at  St.  Andrews,  but  for  the  ar- 
rival of  an  uncle,  himself  sonless,  from  Glasgow, 
whose  family  pride  was  much  excited  by  Rob's 
prizes  and  honors.  This  was  his  mother's  broth- 
er, like  herself  come  of  the  most  respectable 
folk,  "a  decent,  honest  man,"  which  means  ev- 
erything in  Scottish  moral  phraseology.     He  was 


"a  merchant  "in  Glasgow,  meaning  a  shop- 
keeper, and  had  a  good  business  and  money  in 
the  bank,  and  only  one  little  daughter — a  fact 
which  opened  his  heart  to  the  handsome,  bright 
boy  who  was  likely  to  bring  so  much  credit  to 
his  family.  Whether  Robert  Hill  (for  the  boy- 
was  his  namesake)  would  have  thought  so  high- 
ly of  his  nephew  without  these  prizes  is  another 
question ;  but  as  it  was,  he  took  an  immediate 
and  most  warm  interest  in  him.  Mr.  Hill,  how- 
ever, felt  the,  usual  contempt  of  a  member  of  a 
large  trading  community  for  every  small  and 
untrading  place. 

"  St.  An'rews!"  he  said ;  "send  the  boy  to  St. 
An'rews  to  sleep  away  his  time  in  an  auld  hole 
where  there's  naething  doing  !  Na,  na,  I'll  no 
hear  o'  that.  Send  him  to  me,  and  I'll  look  af- 
ter him.  We  know  what  we're  about  in  Glass- 
kie ;  nane  o'  your  dreamin'  and  dozin'  there. 
We  ken  the  value  o'  time  and  the  value  o'  brains, 
and  how  to  make  use  o'  them.  There's  a  room 
that's  never  used  at  the  tap  o'  the  house,  and 
I'll  see  till  'im,"  said  the  generous  trader. 

Mrs.  Glen,  though  half  offended  at  this  depre- 
ciation of  native  learning,  was  pleased  and  proud 
of  her  brother's  liberality. 

"I'll  no  hear  a  word  against  St.  An'rews," 
she  said.  "Mony  a  clever  man's  come  out  of 
it;  but  still  I'm  no  blind  to  the  advantages  on 
the  other  side.  The  lad's  at  an  age  when  it's  a 
grand  thing  to  have  a  man  over  him.  No  but 
what  he's  biddable :  but  laddies  will  be  laddies, 
and  a  man  in  the  house  is  aye  an  advantage. 
So  if  you're  in  earnest,  Robert  (and  I'm  much 
obliged  to  ye  for  your  guid  opinion  of  him),  I'm 
no  saying  but  what  I'll  take  ye  at  your  word." 

"You  may  be  sure  I  mean  it,  or  I  wadna  say 
it,"  said  her  brother;  and  so  the  bargain  was 
made. 

Rob  went  to  Glasgow,  half  eager,  half  reluc- 
tant, as  is  the  manner  of  boys,  and  in  due  time 
went  through  his  classes,  and  was  entered  at  the 
Divinity  Hall.  A  Scotch  student  of  his  condi- 
tion has  seldom  luxurious  or  over-dainty  life  in 
his  long  vacations — six  months  long ;  and  calcu- 
lated for  this  purpose,  that  the  student  may  be 
self-supporting,  Rob  did  many  things  which  kept 
him  independent.  He  helped  his  uncle  in  the 
shop  at  first  with  the  placidity  of  use  and  wont, 
thinking  a  good  shop  a  fine  thing,  as  who  can 
doubt  it  is?  But  when  Rob  began  to  get  on  in 
his  learning,  and  was  able  to  take  a  tutorship,  he 
discovered  with  a  pang  that  a  shop  was  not  so 
fine  a  thing  as  he  supposed. 

Early,  very  early,  the  pangs  of  intellectual  su- 
periority came  upon  him.  He  was  clever,  and 
loved  reading,  and  thus  got  himself,  as  it  were, 
into  society  before  he  was  aware  of  the  process 
that  was  going  on  within  him,  making  friends  of 
very  different  social  position  from  his  own.  Then 
the"  professors  noticed  him,  found  him  what  is 
easily  called  "cultivated  "— for  he  had  read 
much  in  his  little  room  over  the  shop,  with  con- 
stantly growing  ambition  to  escape  from  his  low- 
ly place  and  find  a  higher — and  one  of  them  rec- 
ommended him  to  a  lady  in  the  country  as  tutor 
to  her  boys.  This  was  a  most  anxious  elevation 
at  first,  but  it  trained  him  to  the  habits  of  a  class 
superior  to  his  own  ;  and  after  that  the  shop  and 
its  homely  ways  were  anguish  to  Rob.  Very 
soon  he  found  "out  that  it  was  inconvenient  to  go 
so  far  to  college ;  then  he  found  occupations  in 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


21 


the  evening,  even  during  the  college  session,  and 
thus  felt  justified  in  separating  himself  from  his 
kind  uncle,  who  accepted  his  excuses,  though 
not  without  a  shade  of  doubt.  "Well,  laddie, 
well,  laddie,  we're  no  the  folk  to  keep  you  if  you 
can  do  better  for  yourself,"  the  good  shopkeeper 
said,  affronted  yet  placable.  The  process  is  not 
uncommon ;  and,  indeed,  the  young  man  meant 
no  great  harm.  He  meant  that  his  younger  life 
was  pushing  out  of  the  husk  in  which  it  had  been 
confined,  that  he  was  no  longer  altogether  the 
same  as  the  people  to  whom  he  belonged.  It 
was  true  enough,  and  if  it  was  hard,  who  could 
help  that  ?  It  gave  him  more  pain  to  take  his 
plentiful  meal  rudely  in  the  room  behind  the  shop 
than  it  could  give  them  to  take  it  without  him. 

So  he  reasoned,  and  was  right  and  wrong,  as 
we  all  are,  in  every  revolutionary  crisis.  Had 
he  been  bred  a  shopkeeper  or  a  farmer  lad,  no 
such  thoughts  would  have  distracted  his  mind, 
and  probably  he  would  have  been  happier ;  but 
then  he  had  not  been  brought  up  either  to  the 
shop  or  to  the  farm,  and  how  could  he  help  the 
natural  development  which  his  circumstances 
and  training  brought  with  them  ?  So  by  de- 
grees he  dropped  the  shop.  There  was  no  quar- 
rel, and  he  went  to  see  them  sometimes  on  the 
wintry  Sunday  afternoons,  and  restrained  all  his 
feelings  of  dismay  and  humiliation,  and  bore 
their  "  ways"  as  best  he  could  ;  but  there  is  no- 
body so  quick  as  a  vulgar  relation  to  find  out 
when  a  rising  young  man  begins  to  be  ashamed 
of  him.  The  Hills  were  sore  and  angry  with  the 
young  man  to  whom  they  had  been  so  kind. 
But  the  next  incident  in  Rob's  career  was  one 
that  called  all  his  relations  round  him,  out  of 
sheer  curiosity  and  astonishment,  to  see  a  prodi- 
gy unprecedented  in  their  lives. 

After  he  had  gone  through  all  the  Latin  and 
Greek  that  Glasgow  could  furnish,  and  he  had 
time  for,  and  had  roamed  through  all  the  phi- 
losophies and  begun  Hebrew,  and  passed  two 
years  at  the  Divinity  Hall,  this  crisis  came.  Six 
months  more  and  Rob  would  have  been  ready 
to  begin  his  trials  before  the  Presbytery  for  li- 
cense as  a  probationer,  when  he  suddenly  petri- 
fied all  his  friends,  and  drove  his  mother  half 
out  of  her  senses,  by  the  bewildering  announce- 
ment that  his  conscience  made  it  impossible  for 
him  to  enter  the  Scotch  Church.  The  shock 
was  one  which  roused  the  entire  family  into  life. 
Cousins  unheard  of  before  aroused  themselves  to 
behold  this  extraordinary  spectacle.  Such  hes- 
itations are  not  so  common  with  the  budding 
Scotch  minister  as  with  the  predestined  English 
parson,  and  they  are  so  rare  in  Rob's  class,  that 
this  announcement  on  his  part  seemed  to  his 
relations  to  upset  the  very  balance  of  heaven 
and  earth.  Made  up  his  mind  not  to  be  a  min- 
ister! The  first  sensation  in  their  minds  was 
one  of  absolute  incredulity,  followed  by  angry 
astonishment  when  the  "infatuated"  young  fel- 
low repeated  and  stood  by  his  determination. 
Not  to  be  a  minister !  What  would  he  be,  then  ? 
what  would  satisfy  him?  Set  him  up!  they  all 
cried.  It  was  like  a  fresh  assertion  of  superi- 
ority, a  swagger  and  flourish  over  the  mall,  un- 
bounded presumption  and  arrogance.  Doubts ! 
he  was  a  bonnie  one  to  have  doubts.  As  if  many 
a  better  man  had  not  signed  the  Confession  be- 
fore him,  ay,  and  been  glad  to  have  the  Confes- 
sion to  sijm  .' 


This  at  first  was  the  only  view  which  the  kin- 
dred felt  capable  of  taking.  But  by-and-by, 
when  it  became  apparent  that  this  general  flut- 
ter of  horror  was  to  have  no  effect,  and  that  Rob 
stood  by  his  resolution,  other  features  in  his  enor- 
mity began  to  strike  the  family.  All  the  money 
spent  upon  him  at  the  college,  all  the  time  he 
had  lost;  what  trade  could  he  go  into  now  with 
any  chance  of  getting  on  ?  Two-and-twenty, 
and  all  his  time  gone  for  nothing!  His  uncle, 
Robert  Hill,  who  had  been  as  indignant  as  any, 
here  interposed.  He  sent  for  his  sister,  and 
begged  her  to  compose  herself.  The  lad's  head 
was  turned,  he  said.  He  had  made  friends  that 
were  not  good  for  a  lad  in  his  class  of  life,  that  had 
led  him  away  in  other  ways,  and  had  made  him 
neglectful  of  his  real  friends.  But  still  the  lad 
was  a  fine  lad,  and  not  beyond  the  reach  of  hope. 
This  placable  sentiment  was  thought  by  every- 
body to  proceed  from  Uncle  Robert's  only  daugh- 
ter, Anne,  who  was  supposed  to  regard  her  cous- 
in with  favorable  eyes  ;  but  anyhow  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  Hills  was  that  "the  minister,"  their 
own  minister,  should  be  got  to  "speak  to  "Rob. 
Glad  was  the  mother  of  this  or  any  other  sug- 
gestion, and  the  minister  undertook  the  office 
with  good-will. 

"Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  remove  some  of 
your  difficulties,"  he  said,  and  he  called  to  him- 
self a  professor,  one  of  those  who  had  the  young 
man's  training  in  hand.  Thus  Rob  became  a 
hero  once  more  among  all  belonging  to  him. 
Had  the  minister  spoken  ?  What  had  the  min- 
ister said  ?  Had  he  come  to  his  right  mind  ? 
the  good  people  asked.  And,  indeed,  the  min- 
ister did  speak,  and  so  did  the  professor,  both 
of  whom  thought  Rob's  a  most  interesting  case. 
They  were  most  anxious  to  remove  his  difficul- 
ties ;  nay,  for  that  matter,  to  remove  everything 
— doctrines  and  all — to  free  the  young  man  from 
his  scruples.  They  spoke,  but  they  spoke  with 
bated  breath,  scarcely  able  to  express  the  full 
amount  of  the  "respect  and  sympathy"  with 
which  they  regarded  these  difficulties  of  his. 
"We  too — "  they  said,  in  mysterious  broken 
sentences,  with  imperfect  utterance  of  things  too 
profound  for  the  common  ear.  And  they  did 
their  best  to  show  him  how  he  might  gulp  "down 
a  great  many  things  without  hurting  his  con- 
science, which  the  robust  digestion  of  the  past 
had  been  able  to  assimilate,  but  which  were  not 
adapted  for  the  modern  mind.  "  There  is  more 
faith  in  honest  doubt,  believe  me,  than  in  half 
the  creeds,"  these  gentlemen  said.  But  Rob 
held  out.  He  would  have  been  foolish,  indeed, 
as  well  as  rarely  disinterested  and  unsusceptible 
to  the  most  delicate  of  flatteries,  had  he  not  held 
out.  He  had  never  been  of  so  much  importance 
in  the  course  of  his  life. 

It  may  be  doubtful,  however,  if  it  was  his  con- 
science alone  which  stopped  him  short  in  his 
career.  Rob  had  learned  in  his  tutorships,  and 
among  the  acquaintances  acquired  at  college,  to 
know  that  a  Scotch  minister  did  not  possess  so 
elevated  a  position  as  in  rural  Fife  he  was  thought 
to  do.  The  young  man  had  a  large  share  of  am- 
bition in  him,  and  he  had  read  of  society  and  of 
the  great  world,  that  abstraction  which  capti- 
vates inexperienced  youth.  A  minister  could 
no  more  reach  this  than,  indeed,  could  the  coun- 
try laird  who  was  the  highest  representative  of 
greatness  known  to  Rob ;  but  literature  could 


22 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


(he  thought),  art  could :  and  he  could  write  (he 
flattered  himself),  and  he  could  draw.  Why, 
then,  should  he  bind  himself  to  the  restraints 
necessary  for  that  profession,  when  other  means 
of  success  more  easy  and  glorious  were  in  his 
power  ? 

This  was  a  very  strong  supplementary  argu- 
ment to  strengthen  the  resistance  of  his  con- 
science. And  he  did  not  give  in ;  he  preferred 
to  go  home  with  his  mother,  to  take,  as  all  his 
advisers  entreated  him,  time  to  think  everything 
over.  Rob  had  no  objections  to  take  a  little  time. 
He  wanted  money  to  take  him  to  London,  to  start 
him  in  life,  even  to  pay  off  the  debts  which  he 
said  nothing  of,  but  which  weighed  quite  as  heav- 
ily upon  him  as  his  troubles  of  conscience.  This 
was  how  he  came  to  be,  after  such  a  long  inter- 
val, once  more  living  with  his  mother  at  Earl's- 
hall  farm.  He  had  come  home  in  all  the  impor- 
tance of  a  sceptical  hero,  a  position  very  daz- 
zling to  the  simple  mind,  and  very  attractive  to 
many  honest  people.  But  it  was  not  so  pleasant 
at  home.  Instead  of  being  the  centre  of  anx- 
ious solicitude,  instead  of  being  plied  by  concilia- 
tory arguments,  coaxed  and  persuaded,  and  re- 
spected and  sympathized  with,  he  found  himself 
the  object  of  his  mother's  irony,  and  treated  with 
a  contemptuous  impatience  which  he  fain  would 
have  called  bigotry  and  intolerance. 

Mrs.  Glen  was  not  at  all  respectful  of  honest 
doubt,  and  she  had  a  thorough  contempt  for  any- 
thing and  everything  that  kept  a  man  from  mak- 
ing his  way  in  the  world.  She  was  not  indeed 
a  person  of  refinement  at  all.  She  had  lived  a 
hard  life,  struggling  to  bring  up  her  children  and 
to  "push  them  forrit,"as  she  said.  The  expres- 
sion was  homely,  and  the  end  to  be  obtained  per- 
haps not  very  elevated.  To  "  push  forrit"  your 
son  to  be  Lord  Chancellor,  or  even  a  general  of- 
ficer, or  a  bishop,  is  a  fine  thing,  which  strikes 
the  spectator ;  but  when  all  you  can  do  is  to  push 
him  "forrit "to  a  shop  in  Dundee,  is  the  strug- 
gle less  noble  ?  It  is  less  imposing,  at  all  events. 
And  the  struggling  mother  who  had  done  her 
best  to  procure  such  rise  in  life  and  in  comfort 
as  was  within  her  reach  for  her  children  was  not 
a  person  of  noble  mind  or  generous  understand- 
ing. When  Rob  came  home,  upon  whom  her 
highest  hopes  had  been  set,  not  prosperous  like 
the  others,  but  a  failure  and  disappointment, 
doing  nothing,  earning  nothing,  and  with  no 
prospect  before  him  of  either  occupation  or  gain, 
her  mortification  made  her  bitter.  Fury  and 
disappointment  filled  her  heart.  She  kept  silent 
for  the  first  day,  only  going  about  her  household 
affairs  with  angry  energy,  scolding  her  servants, 
and  as  they  said,  "dinging  everything  about." 
"So  lang  as  she  disna  ding  me!"  said  Jean  the 
dairy-maid ;  but  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
any  long  time  should  pass  before  she  began  to 
"ding"  some  one,  and  ere  long  the  culprit  him- 
self began  to  feel  the  force  of  her  trouble. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  cried ;  "do  you 
call  that  doing  onything — drawing  a  crookit  line 
with  a  pencil  and  filling  it  up  with  paint  ?  Paint ! 
ye  might  paint  the  auld  cart  if  that's  the  trade 
you  mean  to  follow.  It  would  aye  be  worth  a 
shilling  or  twa,  which  is  mail'  than  ever  thae 
scarts  and  splashes  will  be."  Or  when  Rob  es- 
caped into  the  seclusion  of  a  book  :  "Read,  oh 
ay,  ye  can  read  fast  enough  when  it's  for  nae- 
thing  but  diversion  and  to  pass  the  time ;  butye'll 


ne'er  gather  bawbees  with  your  reading,  nor  be  a 
credit  to  them  that  belong  to  you."  This  was 
the  sting  of  the  whole.  He  was  no  credit  to 
those  who  belonged  to  him,  rather  he  was  an 
implied  shame;  for  who  would  believe,  Mrs. 
Glen  asked,  that  this  sudden  return  was  by  his 
own  will?  "Na,  na,"she  said,  "  they'll  think 
it  is  for  ill-doing,  and  that  he's  turned  "away  out 
of  the  college.  It's  what  I  would  do  mysel'. 
And  to  think  of  all  I've  done,  and  all  I've  put  up 
with,  and  a'  to  come  to  naething !  Eh,  man !  I 
would  soon,  soon  have  put  an  end  to  your  douts. 
I  would  have  made  ye  sure  of  ae  thing,  if  it  hadna 
been  your  uncle  Robert  and  his  ministers,  ye 
should  hae  had  nae  douts  about  that :  that  no 
idle  lad  should  sit  at  my  fireside  and  devour  the 
best  o'  everything.  If  ye  had  the  heart  of  a 
mouse  ye  couldna  do  it.  Me,  I  would  starve 
first ;  me,  I  would  sweep  the  streets.  I  would 
go  down  a  coal-pit,  or  work  in  a  gawley  chain 
afore  I  would  sorn  on  my  ain  mother,  a  widow- 
woman,  and  eat  her  out  o'  house  and  hame!" 

Poor  Rob  !  he  was  not  very  sensitive,  and  he 
had  been  used  to  his  mother's  ways  and  moods, 
or  these  reproaches  would  have  been  hard  upon 
him.  No  doubt,  had  he  been  the  innocent  suf- 
ferer for  conscience'  sake  which  he  half  believed 
himself  to  be,  life  would  have  been  unendurable 
in  these  circumstances ;  but  as  it  was,  he  only 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  or  jibed  in  return  and 
paid  her  back  in  her  own  coin.  They  were  both 
made  of  the  same  rough  material,  and  were  able 
to  give  and  take,  playing  with  the  blows  which 
would  have  killed  others.  Rob  was  not  driven 
out  of  the  house,  out  upon  the  world  in  despair, 
as  a  more  sensitive  person  might  have  been.  He 
stayed  doggedly,  not  minding  what  was  said,  till 
he  should  succeed  in  extracting  the  money  which 
would  be  necessary  for  his  start ;  and  from  this 
steady  purpose  a  few  warm  Avoids  were  not  like- 
ly to  dissuade  him.  He,  on  his  side,  felt  that  he 
was  too  much  of  a  man  for  that.  But  it  is  not 
pleasant  to  have  your  faults  dinned  into  your 
ears,  however  much  you  may  scorn  the  infliction, 
and  Rob  had  gone  out  on  the  day  he  met  Mar- 
garet very  much  cast  down  and  discouraged.  He 
had  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  confront  fate 
rather  than  his  mother.  Almost — but  he  was 
not  a  rash  young  man,  notwithstanding  all  that 
had  happened  to  him,  and  the  discomfort  of  issu- 
ing forth  upon  the  world  penniless  was  greater 
than  putting  up  (he  said  to  himself)  with  an  old 
wife's  flyting;  but  still  the  flyting  was  not  pleas- 
ant to  bear. 

"Wha's  that?"  his  mother  said  when  he  re- 
turned. "Oh,  it's  you!  bless  me,  I  thought  it 
was  some  person  with  something  to  do.  There 
was  not  the  draigh  in  the  foot  that  I'm  getting 
used  to.  Maybe  something's  happened  !  You've 
gotten  something  to  do,  or  you've  ta'en  another 
thought!  and  well  I  wot  it's  time." 

"No,"  he  said,  "nothing's  happened.  I'm 
tired  enough  and  ready  enough  to  take  anything 
that  offered,  mother ;  but,  worse  luck,  nothing 
has  happened.  I  don't  know  what  could  hap- 
pen here." 

"No, nor  me  neither," said  Mrs.  Glen ;  "when 
a  lad  hangs  on  at  hame  looking  for  luck  like 
you,  and  never  doing  a  hand's  turn,  it's  far  from 
likely  luck  will  ever  come  the  side  he's  on.  Oh, 
pit  away  your  trash,  and  dinna  trouble  me  with 
the  sight  o't!     Painting!  paint  the  auld  cart,  as 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


23 


I  tell  ye,  if  you're  that  fond  o'  painting,  or  the 
by ie  door." 

"  Everybody  is  not  of  your  mind,"  said  Rob, 
stung  by  this  assault.  "There  are  some  that 
think  them  worth  looking  at,  and  that  not  far 
off  either :  somebody  better  worth  pleasing 
than — "  yon,  lie  had  almost  said  ;  but  with  better 
taste  lie  added,  "any  one  here." 

"And  whamay  it  be  that  has  such  guid  taste?" 
said  the  mother,  satirically;  "a  lass,  I'll  wager. 
Some  poor  silly  thing  or  other  that  thinks  Kob 
Glen's  a  gentleman,  and  is  proud  of  a  word  from 
ane  sae  well  put  on.  Eh,  but  it's  easy  to  be 
well  put  on  when  it  comes  out  of  another  per- 
son's pocket.  It  would  be  some  lass  out  of  the 
Kirkton.  How  dare  ye  stand  there  no  saying  a 
word,  but  smile-smiling  at  me?" 

"  Would  you  like  it  better  if  I  cried  ?"  he 
said;  "smiling  is  not  so  easy  always.  I  have 
little  enough  to  smile  at ;  but  it  is  good  some- 
times to  feel  that  all  the  world  is  not  against 
me." 

"And  wha  is't  that's  on  your  side?  Some 
fool  of  a  lass,"  repeated  Mrs.  Glen,  contemptu- 
ously. "  They're  silly  enough  for  onything  when 
a  young  lad's  in  the  case.  Who  was  it  ?"  she 
added,  raising  her  voice ;  "  eh,  I  would  just  like 
to  gie  her  my  opinion.  It's  muckle  the  like  of 
them  know." 

"  I  doubt  if  your  opinion  would  matter  much," 
he  said,  with  an  air  of  superiority  that  drove  her 
frantic,  "/respect  it  deeply,  of  course ;  but  she 
— a  young  lady,  mother — may  be  allowed,  per- 
haps, to  think  herself  the  best  judge." 

"Leddy !"  said  Mrs.  Glen,  surprised  ;  and  in- 
stinctively she  searched  around  her  to  find  out 
who  this  could  be.  "You'll  be  meaning  Mary 
Fleming,  the  dress -maker  lass;  some  call  her 
Miss ;  or  maybe  the  bit  governess  at  Sir 
Claud's." 

Rob  laughed ;  in  the  midst  of  his  troubles  this 
one  gleam  of  triumph  was  sweet.  "I  mean  no 
stranger,"  he  said,  "but  an  old  friend — one  that 
was  once  my  companion  and  playfellow ;  and 
now  she's  grown  up  into  the  prettiest  fairy,  and 
does  not  despise  me  even  now." 

Mrs.  Glen  was  completely  nonplussed.  She 
looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  imperious  demand, 
which,  gradually  yielding  to  the  force  of  her  cu- 
riosity, fell,  as  he  made  no  reply,  into  a  quite 
softened  interrogation.  "An  auld  companion  ?" 
she  said  to  herself,  bewildered ;  then  added,  in 
a  gentler  tone  than  she  had  used  since  his  re- 
turn, a  side  remark  to  herself:  "He's  no  that 
auld  himsel'." 

"No,"  he  said,  "but  she  is  younger,  mother, 
and  as  beautiful  as  an  angel,  I  think ;  and  she 
had  not  forgotten  Rob  Glen." 

His  mother  looked  at  him  more  and  more 
perplexed.  But  with  her  curiosity  and  with  her 
perplexity  her  heart  melted.  Lives  there  a 
mother  so  hard,  even  when  her  anger  is  hottest, 
as  to  be  indifferent  to  any  one  who  oares  for  her 
boy?  "I  canna  think  who  you're  meaning," 
she  said;  "auld  companions  are  scarce  even  to 
the  like  o'  me — I  mind  upon  nobody  that  you 
could  name  by  that  name,  a  callant  like  you. 
Auld  playfellow !  there's  the  minister's  son,  as 
great  a  credit  to  his  family  as  you're  a  trial ;  but 
he's  no  a  leddy — " 

Again  Rob  laughed ;  he  was  indemnified  for 
all  his   sufferings.     "I  will    not   keep   you  in 


doubt,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  condescension. 
"It  is  little  Margaret  Leslie ;  you  cannot  have 
forgotten  her,  mother.  If  she  is  not  a  lady  I 
don't  know  who  is,  and,"  he  added,  sinking  his 
voice  with  genuine  feeling,  and  a  tender  rush 
of  childish  recollection,  "  my  little  queen." 

"Little  Margaret  Leslie!"  said  his  mother, 
looking  at  him  stupefied,  "you're  no  meaning 
Miss  Margrct  at  Earl's-haH?"  she  cried,  with  a 
half  shriek  of  astonishment,  and  gazed  at  him 
open-mouthed,  like  one  in  a  dream. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Mrs.  Glen  was  much  more  gentle  with  her 
son  after  this  triumph  of  his.  Margaret  Leslie 
was  but  a  girl,  and  her  approbation  did  not 
mean  very  much ;  but  it  was  astonishing  how 
the  farmer-woman  calmed  down,  and  what  a  dif- 
ferent aspect  things  began  to  take  to  her,  after 
she  heard  of  this  meeting.  She  said  nothing 
more  that  night ;  but  stared  at  her  son,  and  let 
him  go,  with  a  half-reluctant  relinquishment  of 
her  prey,  for  the  moment.  And  many  were  the 
thoughts  which  crowded  through  her  mind  dur- 
ing the  night.  She  had  a  respect  for  talent, 
like  all  her  nation ;  but  she  did  not  admire  the 
talent  which  was  unpractical,  and  which  did  not 
serve  a  purpose.  A  young  man  who  was  clever 
enough  to  pass  all  his  examinations  with  credit, 
to  preach  a  good  sermon,  to  get  a  living,  that 
was  what  she  could  understand,  and  she  had 
been  proud  by  anticipation  in  her  son's  ability 
to  do  all  this ;  but  when  it  turned  out  that  he 
did  not  mean  to  employ  his  talent  so,  and  when 
his  cleverness  dwindled  down  into  something 
impalpable,  something  that  could  neither  be 
bought  and  sold,  nor  weighed  and  measured, 
something  which  only  made  a  difference  between 
him  and  other  men,  without  being  of  any  use  to 
him  or  placing  him  in  the  way  of  any  advantage 
— instead  of  respecting  it,  Mrs.  Glen  scorned  the 
miserable  distinction.  "Clever!  ay,  and  much 
good  it  did  him.  Tawlent!  he  would  be  better 
without  it." 

Such  unprofitable  gifts  exasperated  her  much 
more  than  stupidity  would  have  done.  But 
when  she  heard  of  the  interview  with  Margaret 
Leslie,  and  the  renewal  of  friendship,  and  the 
girl's  delight  with  those  "scarts,"  of  which  she 
herself  was  so  contemptuous,  her  practical  mind 
stopped  short  to  consider.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
though  they  would  never  make  a  living  for  him, 
nor  were  of  any  earthly  use  that  she  could  see, 
these  talents  might  be  so  directed  by  a  wise  and 
guiding  hand  as  yet  to  produce  something,  per- 
haps to  bring  him  to  fortune.  A  girl  who  was 
an  heiress  might  be  almost  as  good  a  thing  for 
Rob  as  a  kirk.  To  do  Mrs.  Glen  justice,  she  did 
not  put  the  heiress  on  a  level  with  the  kirk,  or 
sceptically  allow  the  one  to  be  as  good  as  the 
other.  She  only  seized  upon  the  idea  as  a  pis 
aller,  reflecting  that,  if  the  kirk  was  not  to  be 
had,  a  lass  with  a  tocher  might  make  some 
amends. 

Here,  then,  was  something  to  be  done,  some- 
thing practical,  with  meaning  and  "an  object" 
in  it.  Mrs.  Glen  dearly  loved  to  have  an  object. 
It  made  all  the  difference  to  her.  It  was  like 
going  somewhere  on  business  instead  of  merely 


24 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


taking  a  walk.  The  latter  mode  of  exercise  she 
could  not  abide;  but  put  "an  object"  into  it, 
and  it  changed  the  whole  aspect  of  affairs.  This 
was  how  her  son  Kob's  hitherto  useless  accom- 
plishments rose  in  her  estimation  now,  when  they 
began  to  appear  no  longer  useless,  but  possibly 
capable  of  fulfilling  some  certain  kind  of  end,  if 
not  a  very  exalted  one.  At  once  they  acquired 
interest  in  her  eyes.  He  himself  and  his  pres- 
ence at  home  ceased  to  be  aimless,  useless,  al- 
most disgraceful,  as  she  had  hitherto  felt  them 
to  be.  When  she  got  up  next  morning,  it  was 
with  a  sense  of  comfort  and  encouragement 
greater  than  she  had  felt  since  the  unhappy  mo- 
ment when  he  had  declared  to  her  that  it  was 
not  possible  for  him  to  be  a  minister.  Even 
now,  she  could  not  look  back  without  exaspera- 
tion on  that  sudden  change  and  downfall  of  her 
pride  and  comfort.  But  here  at  least  was  a 
prospect  for  him,  a  something  before  him,  a  way 
in  which  his  talents,  unprofitable  as  they  seem- 
ed, might  yet  be  made  of  practical  use.  The 
change  in  her  manner  was  instantly  apparent  to 
her  household.  "  The  mistress  has  gotten  word 
of  something,"  Jean,  the  dairy-maid,  said,  whose 
hope  had  been  that  she  herself  might  not  be 
"dinged"  like  everything  else  in  the  mistress's 
way.  She  did  not  "ding"  anything  on  that 
blissful  morning.  She  was  even  tolerant,  though 
it  cost  her  a  struggle,  when  Rob  was  late  for 
breakfast.  Her  whole  being  seemed  softened 
and  ameliorated,  the  world  had  opened  out  be- 
fore her.  Here  was  an  object  for  exertion,  an 
aim  to  which  she  could  look  forward;  and  with 
this  life  could  never  be  quite  without  zest  to  the 
energetic  disposition  of  Mrs.  Glen. 

The  first  sign  of  the  improved  condition  of  af- 
fairs that  struck  Rob  occurred  after  breakfast, 
when  his  mother,  instead  of  flinging  a  jibe  at  his 
uselessness,  as  she  went  oft',  bustling  and  hot- 
tempered,  to  her  own  occupations,  addressed  him 
mildly  enough,  yet  with  a  hasty  tone  that  sound- 
ed half  shame  and  half  offence.  It  was  not  to 
be  expected,  was  it,  that  she  should  now  en- 
courage him  in  the  habits  she  had  despised  and 
abused  yesterday  without  some  sense  of  embar- 
rassment and  a  certain  shamefacedness?  A 
weaker  woman  would  not  have  done  it  at  all,  but 
would  have  thought  of  her  consistency,  and  kept 
silent  at  least.  But  Mrs.  Glen  was  far  too  con- 
sistent to  have  any  fears  for  her  consistency. 
Her  embarrassment  only  made  her  tone  hasty, 
and  made  her  postpone  her  speech  till  she  had 
reached  the  door.  When  she  had  opened  it,  and 
was  about  to  leave  the  room,  she  turned  round 
to  her  son,  though  without  looking  at  him.  She 
said, 

"If  you  will  draw,  if  you  ca'  that  drawing, 
there's  a  very  bonnie  view  of  the  Kirkton  from 
the  west  green.  I'm  no  saying  you're  to  waste 
your  time  on  such  nonsense,  but  if  you  will  do't, 
there's  the  bonniest  view." 

With  this  she  disappeared,  leaving  Rob  in  a 
state  of  wonder  which  almost  reached  the  point 
of  consternation.  It  made  him  superstitious. 
His  mother — his  mother!  to  pause  and  recom- 
mend to  him  the  bonniest  view !  Something 
must  be  going  to  happen.  Never  in  his  life  had 
he  been  so  surprised.  He  got  up,  half  stupefied, 
as  if  under  a  mystic  compulsion,  and  got  his 
sketching-block  and  his  colors,  and  went  out  to 
the  west  green.     It  was  as  if  some  voice  had 


come  out  of  the  sky  above  him,  or  from  the  soil 
beneath  his  feet,  commanding  this  work.  What 
was  he  that  he  should  be  disobedient  to  the  heav- 
enly vision?  He  went  out  like  a  man  in  a 
dream,  his  feet  turning  mechanically  to  the  in- 
dicated spot. 

It  was  a  fresh  yet  sunny  morning,  the  dew 
not  yet  oft'  the  grass,  for  everything  was  early  at 
the  farm.  The  hills,  far  oft',  lay  clear  in  softest 
tints  of  blue,  dark  yet  transparent,  the  very  col- 
or of  aerial  distance,  while  all  the  hues  of  the 
landscape  between,  the  brown  ploughed  land, 
the  green  corn,  the  faint  yellowing  of  here  and 
there  a  prosperous  field,  the  darkness  of  the 
trees  and  hedges,  the  pale  gleams  of  water,  rose 
into  fuller  tones  of  color  as  they  neared  him,  yet 
all  so  heavenly  clear.  The  morning  was  so  clear 
that  Jean,  in  the  byre,  shook  her  head,  and  said 
there  would  be  rain.  The  clearness  of  the  at- 
mosphere brought  everything  near;  you  might 
have  stretched  out  your  hands  and  touched  the 
Sidlaws,  and  even  the  blue  peaks  of  the  Gram- 
pians beyond ;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  land- 
scape lay  the  Kirkton,  glorified,  every  red  roof 
in  it,  every  bit  of  gray-yellow  thatch  and  dark 
brown  wall  telling  against  the  background  of 
fields ;  the  trees  scarcely  rufHed  by  the  light 
morning  wind,  the  church  rising  like  a  citadel 
upon  its  mound  of  green,  flecked  with  the  buri- 
al-places of  the  past,  the  houses  clustered  round 
it,  the  smoke  rising,  a  faint  darkening,  as  of 
breath  in  the  air,  to  mark  where  human  living 
was.  What  a  scene !  yet  nothing ;  the  homeli- 
est country,  low  hills,  broad  fields,  a  common- 
place village.  For  a  moment  Rob,  though  he 
had  no  genius,  fell  into  a  trance,  as  of  genius, 
before  this  wonderful,  simple  landscape.  "A 
voice  said  unto  me,  Write ;  and  I  said,  What 
shall  I  write?"'  How  put  it  into  words,  into 
colors  upon  dull  paper?  His  head  was  filled 
with  a  magical  confusion.  For  once  in  his  life 
he  approached  the  brink  of  genius — in  the  sense 
of  his  incapacity.  He  sat  down,  gazed,  and 
could  do  no  more. 

By-and-by  Mrs.  Glen  came  strolling  out  from 
the  house,  with  that  assumed  air  of  ease  and 
leisure  which  is  always  so  comically  transparent. 
She  meant  to  assume  that  she  had  nothing  to 
do,  and  was  taking  a  walk  for  pleasure,  which 
was  about  as  unlikely  a  thing  as  could  have  hap- 
pened, almost  as  unlikely  as  pure  interest  in 
Rob's  work,  which  was  her  real  motive.  She 
wanted  to  see  what  lie  had  done,  whether  he  had 
taken  that  bonniest  view,  how  he  was  getting  on 
with  it,  and  if  it  was  a  thing  which  could,  by 
any  possibility,  dazzle  and  delight  a  young  lady 
who  was  an  heiress.  Assuredly  she  had  not 
sent  out  her  son  to  dream  over  the  landscape,  to 
do  anything  but  draw  it  there  and  then  without 
delay,  as  if  he  had  been  sent  to  plough  a  field. 
She  came  up  to  him,  elaborately  unoccupied  and 
at  her  ease,  yet  explanatory. 

"I've  just  come  out  to  look  about  me,"  she 
said,  with  fictitious  jauntiness.  "So  you're  at 
it  again !  Eh,  laddie,  what  a  waste  o'  time  and 
good  paper,  no  to  speak  of  time  colors  that  cost 
money !  And  how  far  are  you  on  by  this  time  ? 
are  you  near  done  ?" 

Rob  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  shut  his  book 
hastily. 

"I  have  just  begun,  mother;  but  I  did  not 
think  you  took  any  interest  in  my  poor  drawing." 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


1  "  Me— take  an  interest  ?  No!  But  if  you're 
to  waste  my  substance  and  your  ain  time  taking 
pictures,  I  "may  as  well  see  what  there  is  to  see 
as  other  folk." 

"  You  shall  see  it  when  it  is  done,"  said  Rob. 
"It  is  not  in  a  condition  to  show  now.  It 
is  not  a  thing  that  can  be  done  in  a  minute. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  thought  necessary— the 
different  harmonies  of  color,  the  relation  of  one 
part  to  another — " 

Mrs.  Glen  was  overawed. 

"Ane  would  think  it  was  some  grand  affair. 
A  bit  scait  upon  the  paper,  and  a  wheen  greens 
and  blues :  and  ye  talk  as  if  it  was  a  battle  to 
fight  or  a  grand  law-plea." 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Rob,  "  many  a  man 
could  fight  a  battle  that  could  not  draw  the 
Kirkton,  with  all  the  hills  behind  it,  and  the 
clouds,  and  the  air." 

"Air!  ye  can  paint  air,  ye  clever  lad! "cried 
Mrs.  Glen,  with  a  laugh.'  "Maybe  you  can 
paint  the  coos  mowing  and  the  sheeps  baaing? 
I  would  not  wonder.  It's  as  easy  as  the  air, 
which  every  bairn  kens  is  no  a  thing  you  can 
see." 

"I  don't  say  I  can  do  it  myself,"  said  Rob; 
"but  I've  seen  pictures  where  you  would  think 
you»heard  the  cows  and  the  sheep — yes,  and  the 
skylarks  up  in  the  sky,  and  the  hare  plashing 
about  in  the  wet  woods." 

"Just  that,"  said  his  mother,  "and  the  coun- 
try gomerel  that  believes  all  you  like  to  tell  her. 
Among  a'  thae  bonnie  things  there  should  be  a 
place  for  the  one  that's  to  be  imposed  upon  ;  but 
you'll  no  put  me  there,  I'll  warrant  you,"  she 
cried,  flouncing  away  in  sudden  wrath. 

This  interruption  roused  Rob  and  put  him 
upon  his  mettle.  If  it  was  well  to  have  thus 
dignified  his  work  in  her  eyes  so  that  she  should 
be  concerned  in  its  progress,  the  result  was  not 
an  unmitigated  good.  Hitherto  he  had  worked 
as  the  spirit  moved  him,  and  when  he  was  not 
sufficiently  stirred  had  let  his  pencil  alone.  But 
this  would  not  do,  now  that  his  labor  had  become 
a  recognized  industry.  He  betook  himself  to 
his  task  with  a  sigh. 

Rob's  artist-powers  were  not  great.  He  drew 
like  an  amateur,  not  even  an  amateur  of  a  high 
order,  and  would  not  have  impressed  any  spec- 
tator who  had  much  knowledge  of  art.  But  he 
had  a  certain  amount  of  that  indescribable  qmil- 
ity  which  artists  call  "feeling,"  a  quality  which 
sometimes  makes  the  most  imperfect  of  sketches 
more  attractive  than  the  skilfullest  piece  of  paint- 
ing. This  is  a  gift  which  is  more  dependent 
upon  moods  and  passing  impulses  than  upon 
knowledge  and  skill ;  and  no  doubt  the  subtlety 
of  those  flying  shadows,  the  breadth  of  the  in- 
finite morning  light,  so  pure,  so  delicate,  yet  brill- 
iant, put  them  beyond  the  hand  of  the  untrained 
craftsman.  The  consequence  of  this  morning's 
work,  the  first  undertaken  with  legitimate  sanc- 
tion and  authority,  was  accordingly  a  failure. 
Rob  put  the  Kirkton  upon  his  paper  very  faith- 
fully ;  he  drew  the  church  and  the  houses  so  that 
nobody  could  fail  to  recognize  them  ;  but  as  for 
the  air  of  which  he  had  boasted !  alas,  there  was 
no  air  in  it.  He  worked  till  the  hour  of  the  farm 
dinner ;  worked  on,  getting  more  eager  over  it 
as  he  felt  every  line  to  fail,  and  walked  home, 
flushed  and  excited,  when  he  heard  his  name 
called   through  the  mid -day   brightness.     The 


broth  was  on  the  table  when  he  went  in,  putting 
down  his  materials  on  a  side-table ;  and  Mrs. 
Glen  was  impatient  of  the  moment  he  spent  in 
washing  his  hands. 

"You  have  as  many  fykes  as  a  fine  leddy," 
she  said.  It  had  not  occurred  to  her  to  make 
this  preparation  for  her  meal.  She  drew  her 
chair  to  the  table,  and  said  grace  in  the  same 
breath  with  this  reproach.  "Bless  these  mer- 
cies," she  said;  and  then,  "Ye  canna  say  but 
you've  had  a  lang  morning,  and  naebody  to  dis- 
turb you.  I  hope  you  have  something  to  show 
for  it  now." 

"Not  much,"  said  Rob. 

"  No  much  !  It's  a  pretence,  then,  like  a'  the 
rest !  Lord  bless  me,  I  couldna  spend  the  whole 
blessed  day  without  doing  a  hand's  turn,  no,  if 
you  would  pay  me  for  it.  Eh,  but  we're  deceived 
"creatures,"  cried  Mrs.  Glen  ;  "as  glad  when  a 
bairn  comes  into  the  world  as  if  it  brought  a 
fortune  with  it !  A  bonnie  fortune !  anxiety  and 
care;  and  if  there's  a  moment's  pleasure,  it's  aye 
ransomed  by  days  of  trouble.  Sup  your  broth  ; 
they're  very  good  broth,  far  better  than  the  like 
of  you  deserve ;  but  maybe  you  think  it's  no  a 
grand  enough  dinner  for  such  a  fine  gentleman  ? 
Na,  when  I  was  just  making  up  my  mind  to  let 
you  take  your  will  and  see  what  you  could  do 
your  ain  way — and  you  set  up  your  face  and  tell 
me,  no  much!  No  much  !  if  it's  not  enough  to 
anger  a  saint!" 

' '  There  it  is ;  you  can  judge  for  yourself,"  cried 
Rob,  with  sudden  exasperation.  He  jumped  up 
from  the  table  so  quickly  that  his  mother  had  no 
time  to  point  out  his  want  of  manners  in  getting 
up  in  the  midst  of  his  dinner.  The  words  were 
stopped  on  her  lips,  when  he  suddenly  placed  the 
block  on  which  he  had  been  drawing  before  her. 
Mrs.  Glen  had  not  condescended  to  look  at  any 
of  these  performances  before.  It  would  have 
seemed  a  sort  of  acceptance  of  his  excuse  had 
she  taken  any  notice  of  the  "rubbitch"  with 
which  he  "played  himself,"  and  she  had  really 
felt  the  contempt  she  expressed.  Drawing  pict- 
ures !  it  was  a  kind  of  childish  occupation,  an 
amusement  to  be  pursued  on  a  wet  day,  when 
nothing  else  was  possible,  or  as  a  solace  in  the 
tedium  of  illness.  But  when  Rob  put  down  be- 
fore her,  relieved  against  the  white  table-cloth, 
the  Kirkton  itself  in  little,  a  very  reproduction 
of  the  familiar  scene  she  had  beheld  every  day 
for  years,  the  words  were  stopped  upon  his  moth- 
er's lips. 

"Eh!"  she  cried,  in  mere  excess  of  emotion, 
able  for  nothing  but  a  monosyllable.  The  very 
imperfection  of  it  gave  it  weight  in  Mrs.  Glen's 
unpractised  eyes.  "Losh  me!"  she  cried, when 
she  had  recovered  the  first  shock  of  admiration. 
"Rob, was  it  you  that  did  that?  are  you  sure 
it's  your  ain  doing?"  She  could  not  trust  her 
own  eyes. 

"And  poor  enough  too,"  said  Rob,  but  he  liked 
the  implied  applause:  who  would  not?  Praise 
of  what  we  have  done  well  may  satisfy  our  intel- 
lectual faculties,  but  praise  of  a  failure,  that  is  a 
thing  which  really  goes  to  the  heart. 

"  Poor !  I  would  like  to  ken  what  you  mean 
by  poor?"  Mrs.  Glen  pushed  away  the  broth 
and  took  up  the  block  in  a  rapture  of  surprise 
and  delight.  "It's  the  very  Kirkton  itself!" she 
said;  "there's  Robert  Jamieson's  house,  and 
there's  Hugh  Macfarlane's.  and  there's  the  wav 


26 


THE  PRIMROSE  RATH. 


you  go  to  the  post,  and  there's  the  Kilnelly  bury- 
ing-ground,  and  the  little  road  up  to  the  kirk — 
no  a  thing  missed  out.  And  do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  it's  a'  your  own  doing?  Oh,  laddie,  lad- 
die, the  talents  you've  gotten  frae  Providence! 
and  the  little  use  you  make  o'  them,"  added  his 
mother,  with  a  sudden  recollection  of  the  burden 
of  her  prophecy  against  her  son,  which  could  not 
be  departed  from  even  now. 

Rob  was  so  much  encouraged  that  he  ventured 
to  laugh.  "  There  is  nothing  I  wish  so  much  as 
to  make  more  use  of  them,"  he  said;  "I  ought 
to  study  and  have  good  teaching." 

"  Teaching!  what  do  you  want  with  teaching  ? 
You  were  never  one  that  was  easy  satisfied ; 
what  mair  would  you  have?"  she  cried.  She 
could  not  take  her  eyes  from  the  drawing.  She 
touched  it  lightly  with  her  finger  to  make  sure 
that  it  was  flat,  and  did  not  owe  its  perspective 
to  mechanical  causes.  "To  think  it's  naething 
but  a  cedar  pencil  and  a  wheen  paints!  I  never 
saw  the  like !  and  you  to  do  it,  a  laddie  like  you ! 
It  beats  me !  Ay,  there's  Robert  Jamieson's 
house,  andyon's  Hugh  Macfarlane's,  and  the  wee 
gate  into  the  kirk-yard  as  natural !  and  Widow 
Morrison's  small  shop  joining  the  kirk.  I  can 
'most  see  the  things  in  the  window.  I  would 
like  the  Minister  to  see  it,"  said  Mrs.  Glen. 

"Not  that  one,  it  is  not  good  enough;  there 
are  others,  mother." 

She  cast  upon  him  a  half- contemptuous 
glance.  He  was  "no  judge,"  even  though  it 
was  he  who  had  done  it :  how  could  he  be  a 
judge,  when  he  had  so  little  appreciation  of  this 
great  work  ? 

"  It's  a  great  deal  you  ken,"  she  said ;  "  I  will 
take  it  mysel'  and  let  him  see  it.  He  would  be 
awfu'  pleased.  His  ain  kirk,  and  ye  can  just  see 
the  Manse  trees,  though  it's  no  in  the  picture. 
And  a'  done  in  one  forenoon !  I  suppose,"  she 
added,  suddenly,  "the  like  of  this  brings  in  sil- 
ler.    It's  a  business,  like  any  other  trade  ?" 

"  When  they  are  better  than  that,  yes — pict- 
ures sell ;  but  you  should  not  speak  of  it  as  a 
trade." 

"  I  wish  it  was  half  as  honest  and  straightfor- 
ward as  many  a  trade.  Better  than  that !  that's 
aye  your  way.  But  you  have  not  suppit  your 
broth.  I  would  not  say  now,"  said  Mrs.  Glen, 
in  high  good-humor  "(sit  down  and  finish  your 
dinner),  but  Miss  Margret  would  like  a  look  at 
that." 

"It  is  not  half  good  enough." 

"  Hold  your  peace,  you  silly  lad !  I  hope  I 
ken  what  I'm  saying.  She's  but  lonely,  poor 
thing — no  a  young  person  to  speak  to.  It  would 
divert  her  to  see  it.  I  would  not  forbid  you  now 
to  give  the  young  leddy  the  like  o'  that  in  a  pres- 
ent. Sir  Ludovic's  our  landlord,  after  a'.  He's 
no  an  ill  landlord,  though  he's  poor.  It  is  aye 
a  fine  thing  to  be  civil,  and  ye  never  can  tell  but 
what  a  kind  action  will  meet  with  its  reward.  I 
see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  take  that  to 
Miss  Margret  in  a  present,"  Mrs.  Glen  said. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Rob  had  not  been  so  light  of  heart  since  lie 
made  that  momentous  decision  about  his  profes- 
sion which  had  so  strangely  changed  his  Ike. 


For  the  first  time  since  then  he  felt  himself  an' 
allowed  and  authorized  person,  not  in  disgrace  or 
under  disapprobation  of  all  men,  as  he  had  hith- 
erto been  ;  and  the  permission  to  carry  his  draw- 
ing of  the  Kirkton  to  Miss  Margaret  "in  a  pres- 
ent" amused  him,  while  it  gave  at  the  same 
time  a  certain  sanction  to  his  engagement  to 
meet  her,  and  show  her  the  other  productions  of 
his  pencil.  Rob  had  his  wits  about  him  more 
than  Margaret  had,  though  not  so  much  as  his 
mother.  He  was  aware  that  to  ask  a  young 
lady  to  meet  him  at  the  burn,  for  what  purpose 
soever,  was  not  exactly  what  was  becoming,  and 
that  the  advantage  he  had  taken  of  their  childish 
friendship  was  perhaps  not  quite  so  "like  a  gen- 
tleman" as  he  wished  to  be.  He  could  not,  in- 
deed, persuade  himself  that  his  mother  was  any 
authority  in  such  a  question  ;  but  still  the  fact 
that  she  thought  it  quite  natural  that  he  should 
carry  on  his  old  relations  with  Margaret,  and 
even  encouraged  him  to  make  the  young  lady  a 
present,  gave  him  a  sort  of  fictitious  satisfaction. 
He  would  affect  to  take  his  mother's  opinion  as 
his  authority,  if  his  conduct  was  called  in  ques- 
tion, and  thus  her  ignorance  was  a  bulwark  to 
him.  He  went  out  again  after  his  broth,  and 
worked  diligently  all  the  afternoon,  though  Mrs. 
Glen  thought  it  very  unnecessary. 

"  'Twill  just  spoil  it,"  she  said.  "  The  like  of 
3-011  never  knows  where  to  stop :  either  you  do 
nothing  at  all,  or  you  do  a  hantle  o'er  much." 

But  on  this  point  Rob  took  his  own  way. 
Certainly,  even  when  you  despise  the  opinion  of 
those  around,  it  is  good  to  be  thought  well  off. 
The  moral  atmosphere  was  lighter  round  him, 
and  there  was  the  pleasant  prospect  of  meeting 
Margaret  in  the  evening,  and  receiving  the  de- 
lightful incense  of  her  admiration  ;  a  more  agree- 
able way  of  rilling  up  this  interval  of  leisure  could 
not  have  been  devised,  had  his  leisure  been  the 
most  legitimate,  the  most  natural  in  the  world. 

While  he  sat  at  his  drawing  in  the  breezy  af- 
ternoon, a  further  sign  of  tire  rehabilitation  he 
had  undergone  was  accorded  to  him.  Voices  ap- 
proaching him  through  the  garden,  which  lay  be- 
tween the  house  and  the  west  green,  prepared  him 
for  visitors,  and  these  voices  were  too  familiar  to 
leave  him  in  doubt  who  the  visitors  were.  It  was 
the  Minister,  whom  Mrs.  Glen  was  leading  to  the 
spot  where  her  son  was  at  work  on  his  drawing. 
"I'll  no  say  that  I  expected  much,"  said  Mrs. 
Glen, "  for  I'm  not  one  that  thinks  everything  fine 
that's  done  by  my  ain.  I  think  I'm  a'  the  mair 
hard  to  please ;  but,  Doctor,  when  I  saw  upon 
the  paper  the  very  Kirkton  itsel'!  Losh  me! 
there  wasn't  a  house  but  you  would  have  kent  it. 
Robert  Jamieson's  and  Hugh  Macfarlane's,  just 
as  like  as  if  you  had  been  standing  afore  them. 
It  clean  beats  me  how  a  lad  can  do  that,  that 
has  had  little  time  for  anything  but  his  studies ; 
for,  Doctor,  I  never  heard  but  that  my  Rob  was  a 
good  student.  He  hasna  come  to  a  good  issue, 
which  is  awfu'  mysterious;  but  a  good  student 
he  aye  was,  and  there's  no  a  man  that  kens  who 
will  say  me  nay." 

"I  am  well  aware  of  that,"  said  Dr.  Burnside. 
"It  makes  it  all  the  more  mysterious,  as  you 
well  say;  but  let  us  hope  that  time  and  thought 
will  work  a  change.  I'm  not  one  to  condemn  a 
young  man  because  he  has  troubles  of  mind. 
We've  all  had  our  experiences,"  the  good  man 
said,  as  he  came  through  the  opening  in  the  hedge 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


27 


to  the  west  green,  which  was  nothing  more  im- 
posing than  the  "green,"  technically  so  called, 
in  which  the  farmer's  household  dried  its  clothes 
— a  green,  or,  to  speak  more  circumstantially,  "a 
washing  green,"  a  square  of  grass  on  which  the 
linen  could  be  bleached  if  necessary,  and  with 
posts  at  each  corner  for  the  ropes  on  which  it  was 
suspended  to  dry,  being  a  necessity  of  every  house 
in  Fife,  and  throughout  Scotland.  There  was  no 
linen  hung  out  at  present  to  share  the  breezy  green 
with  Rob.  lie  sat  on  the  grass  on  a  three-leg- 
ged stool  he  had  brought  with  him  ;  a  low  hedge 
ran  round  the  little  enclosure,  with  a  little  burn 
purling  under  its  shadow,  and  beyond  were  the 
green  fields  and  the  village,  with  all  its  reds  and 
blues.  Behind  him  an  old  ash-tree  fluttered  its 
branches  and  sheltered  him  from  the  sun. 

"  Well,  Robert,  and  how  do  you  do?"  said 
Dr.  Burnside.  "I  have  come  out  to  see  you,  at 
your  mother's  instance.  She  tells  me  you've 
developed  a  great  genius  for  painting.  I  am 
very  happy  to  hear  of  it,  but  I  hope  you  will 
not  let  the  siren  art  lead  you  away  from  better 
things." 

"What  are  better  things  ?"said  Rob ;  "  I  don't 
know  any,"  and  he  got  up  to  respond  to  the  Min- 
ister's salutation.     Dr.  Burnside  shook  his  head. 

"  That  is  what  I  feared,"  he  said.  "  You  must 
not  give  up  for  painting,  or  any  other  pleasure 
of  this  earth,  the  higher  calling  you  were  first 
bound  to,  my  good  lad.  You've  served  your 
time  to  the  Church,  and  what  if  you  have  pass- 
ing clouds  that  trouble  your  spirit  ?  Having 
put  your  hand  to  the  plough,  you  must  not  turn 
back." 

"Eh,  that's  what  I  tell  him  every  day  o'  his 
life,"  said  Mrs.  Glen. 

"  I  came  on  purpose  to  have  a  long  conversa- 
tion with  you,"  said  the  Minister.  "Yes,  very 
pretty,  very  pretty.  I  am  no  judge  of  paintings 
myself,  but  I've  no  doubt  it's  very  well  done.  I 
need  not  tell  you  I'm  very  sorry  for  all  that's  come 
and  gone ;  but  I  cannot  give  up  the  hope,  Rob- 
ert, that  you  will  see  the  error  of  your  ways.  I 
cannot  think  a  promising  lad  like  you  will  con- 
tinue in  a  wrong  road." 

"If  it  is  a  wrong  road,"  said  Rob. 

"Whisht,  lad,  and  hearken  what  the  Minister 
says  ;  but  before  I  go  in,  Doctor,  look  at  the  pict- 
ure. Is't  no  wonderful  ?  There's  your  ain  very 
trees,  and  the  road  we've  ga'en  to  the  kirk  as 
long  as  I  can  mind,  and  a'  the  whigmaleeries  of 
the  auld  steeple.  Na,  I  put  nae  faith  in  it  at 
first,  no  me !  but  when  I  saw  it,  just  a  bit  sense- 
less paper,  good  for  nothin'  in  itsel'!  Take  a 
good  look  at  it,  Doctor.  It's  no  like  the  kind 
of  thing  ye'll  see  every  day." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Glen,"  said  the  Minister,  "I  do 
not  doubt  it  is  very  pretty.  I  am  no  judge  my- 
self. I  would  like  to  hear  what  Sir  Claude 
would  say ;  he  is  a  great  connoisseur.  But  it 
was  not  about  pictures,  however  pretty,  that  I 
was  wanting  to  speak  to  Robert.  My  good  lad, 
put  away  your  bonnie  view  and  all  your  paints 
for  a  moment,  and  take  a  walk  down  to  the 
Manse  with  me.  I  would  like  to  satisfy  myself 
how  you  stand,  and  perhaps  a  little  conversation 
might  be  of  use.  There  is  nothing  so  good  for 
clearing  the  cobwebs  out  of  the  mind,  as  just  en- 
tering into  the  state  of  the  case  with  a  competent 
person,  one  that  understands  you,  and  knows 
what  to  advise." 


"That  is  what  I  aye  said  when  all  thae  pro- 
fessors in  Glasgow  was  taighling  at  him ;  the 
Doctor  at  hame  would  understand  far  better, 
that  is  what  I  aye  said.  Go  with  the  Minister, 
Rob,  and  pay  great  attention.  I'll  cany  in  the 
things.  But  I  wish  ye  would  take  a  good  look 
at  the  picture,  Doctor;  and  yell  no  keep  him 
too  long,  for  he  has  a  friend  to  see,  and  two- 
three  things  to  do.  You'll  mind  that,  Rob,  my 
man." 

Never  since  the  fatal  letter  which  disclosed 
his  apostasy  had  his  mother  addressed  him  be- 
fore as  "my  man."  And  Rob  knew  that  the 
Doctor  was  not  strong  in  argument.  He  went 
with  him  across  the  fields  he  had  just  been  put- 
ting into  his  sketch,  with  an  easy  mind.  He  was 
fond  of  discussion,  like  every  true-born  Scots- 
man, and  here  at  least  he  was  pretty  sure  of  hav- 
ing the  victory.  Mrs.  Glen,  for  her  part,  carried 
in  "the  paints"  with  a  certain  reverence.  She 
put  the  sketch  against  the  wall  of  the  parlor, 
and  contemplated  it  with  pride,  which  was  a  still 
warmer  sentiment  than  her  pleasure.  It  was 
"  our  Rob  "  that  had  done  that ;  nobody  else  in 
the  country-side  was  so  clever.  It  was  true  that 
Sir  Claude  was  a  connoisseur,  as  the  Minister 
said,  and  was  supposed  to  kno.\v  a  great  deal 
about  art,  but  nobody  had  ever  seen  a  picture  of 
his  to  be  compared  with  this  of  "our  Rob's." 
Mrs.  Glen  set  the  sketch  against  the  wall,  and 
got  her  knitting  and  sat  down  opposite  to  it,  not 
to  worship,  but  to  build  castles  upon  that  foun- 
dation, which  was  not  much  more  satisfactory 
than  Alnascher's  basket  of  eggs.  The  thought 
passed  through  her  mind,  indeed,  that  he  who 
could  do  so  much  in  this  accidental  and  chance 
way,  what  might  he  not  have  done  had  he  fol- 
lowed out  his  original  vocation  ?  which  was  a 
grievous  thought.  But  then  it  never  could  have 
been  in  Rob's  way  to  be  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury, or  anything  but  a  parish  minister,  like  the 
Doctor  himself;  whereas,  perhaps,  with  this  un- 
suspected new  gift,  and  out  of  his  very  idleness 
and  do-nothingness,  who  could  tell  what  might 
come  ?  Mrs.  Glen's  imagination  was  of  a  vulgar 
kind,  but  it  enabled  her  to  follow  out  a  perfectly 
feasible  and  natural  line  of  events,  and  to  settle 
what  her  own  line  of  conduct  was  to  be  with  ad- 
mirable good  sense :  not  to  press  him,  not  to  put 
herself  forward  as  arranging  anything,  not  to  in- 
terfere with  the  young  lady,  but  to  wait  and  see 
how  things  would  happen.  Nothing  could  be 
more  simple.  The  end  was  a  mist  of  confusion 
before  the  farmer-woman's  eyes.  Perhaps  she 
fell  asleep,  nodding  over  her  half-knitted  stock- 
ing in  the  drowsiness  of  the  afternoon ;  but  if 
so,  a  vague  vision  of  "our  Rob  "  turned  into  Sir 
Robert,  and  reigning  at  EaiTs-hall,  glistened  at 
the  end  of  that  vista.  How  he  could  be  Sir 
Robert,  by  what  crown  matrimonial  he  could  be 
invested  with  the  title  and  the  lands  of  which 
Ludovic  Leslie,  and  not  Margaret,  was  the  heir, 
we  need  not  try  to  explain.  The  dreamer  her- 
self could  not  have  explained  it,  nor  did  she  try ; 
and  perhaps  she  had  fallen  asleep,  and  was  not 
accountable  for  the  fancies  that  had  got  into  her 
drowsy  brain. 

As  for  Rob,  he  had  a  long  conversation  with 
the  Minister,  and  posed  him  as  he  had  intended 
and  foreseen.  Dr.  Bumside's  theology  was  pon- 
derous, and  his  information  a  trifle  out  of  date. 
Even  in  the  ordinary  way  of  reasoning,  his  argu- 


28 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


ments  were  more  apt  to  unsettle  the  minds  of 
good  believers  and  make  the  adversary  rejoice, 
than  to  produce  any  more  satisfactory  result ; 
and  it  may  be  supposed  that  he  was  not  very 
■well  prepared  for  the  young  sceptic,  trained  in 
new  strongholds  of  learning  which  the  good 
Doctor  knew  but  by  name.  Dr.  Burnside  shook 
his  puzzled  head  when  he  went  into  the  Manse 
to  tea.  "  Yon's  a  clever  lad,"  he  said  to  his  wife. 
"  I  sometimes  think  the  devil  always  gets  the 
cleverest." 

"  Well,  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Burnside,  who  was 
a  very  strong  theologian,  "have  you  forgotten 
that  the  foolish  tilings  of  this  earth  are  to  con- 
found the  strong?" 

But  the  Doctor  only  shook  his  head.  He  did 
not  like  to  think  of  himself  as  one  of  the  foolish 
things  of  this  earth,  even  though  by  so  doing  he 
might  have  a  better  hope  of  confounding  the  au- 
dacious strength  of  Rob  Glen.  But  he  ponder- 
ed much  upon  the  subject,  and  polished  up  his 
weapons  in  private,  going  through  many  an  ar- 
gument in  his  own  mind,  which  was  more  suc- 
cessful, and  preparing  snares  and  pitfalls  for  the 
young  heretic.  He  had  patronized  Rob  when 
Rob  was  orthodox,  but  he  respected  him  now  as 
he  had  never  done  before. 

"I  think  I  will  preach  my  sermon  on  the  fig- 
tree  next  Sabbath  morning,"  he  said  to  his  wife 
after  tea.  "I  think  that  will  stagger  him,  if 
anything  can." 

"Well,  Doctor,"  Mrs.  Burnside  replied,  "it 
will  always  be  a  pleasure  to  hear  it;  but  I  fear 
Robert  Glen  is  one  of  those  whose  ears  are  made 
heavy,  that  they  cannot  hear." 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head  again,  out  of  re- 
spect to  the  Scriptures  ;  but  lie  was  not  so  hope- 
less. Perhaps  he  believed  in  his  sermon  on  the 
fig-tree  more  than  his  wife  did,  and  he  felt  that 
to  gain  back  the  young  man  who  had  baffled 
him  would  be  indeed  a  crown  of  glory.  He 
spent  an  hour  in  his  study  that  night  looking  up 
other  sermons  which  specially  suited  the  case. 
It  gave  him  an  interest  in  his  sermons  which  he 
had  not  felt  since  Sir  Claude  gave  up  coming  to 
the  parish  church,  and  seceded  to  the  Episcopal 
chapel  in  St.  Rule's.  That  had  been  a  distress- 
ing event  to  the  good  Doctor,  but  he  had  got  over 
it,  and  now  providence  had  been  kind  enough  to 
send  him  a  young  unbeliever  to  convince.  Per- 
haps the  good  folks  of  the  Kirkton  and  the  par- 
ish generally  would  have  heard  of  this  looking 
up  of  the  old  discourses  with  some  apprehension  ; 
but  the  Doctor  wrote  a  new  introduction  to  the 
sermon  on  the  fig-tree,  and  that  was  some  little 
gain  at  least. 

Rob  left  his  pastor  with  less  respectfulness 
than  the  good  Doctor  felt  for  him.  After  run- 
ning the  gauntlet  of  the  professors,  and  receiving 
all  the  attention  he  had  received  as  the  represent- 
ative of  honest  doubt,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  Dr.  Burnside  could  impress  him  much,  and 
he  took  up  a  great  deal  of  time  with  his  feeble 
argumentations.  When,  however,  the  Minister 
invited  him  to  come  to  the  Manse  to  tea,  Rob 
made  a  very  pretty  speech  about  his  mother. 
"  She  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  though  I  know 
I  have  disappointed  her,"  he  said,  "and  I  must 
not  leave  her  alone.  I  don't  think  I  can  leave 
her  alone." 

"  That's  the  finest  thing  you've  said,  Robert," 
said  the  Doctor.     "I  see  your  heart  is  right,  al- 


though your  head  is  all  wrong;"  and  with  this 
they  parted,  and  the  good  man  came  in  to  look 
over  his  sermons.  As  for  Rob,  he  hurried  home 
to  collect  some  sketch-books  for  Margaret's  ben- 
efit, and  would  not  share  his  mother's  tea,  not- 
withstanding his  pretty  speech.  But  it  was  as- 
tonishing how  tolerant  Mrs.  Glen  had  grown. 
She  shook  her  head,  but  she  did  not  insist  upon 
the  bread-and-butter. 

"I'll  have  something  ready  for  your  supper 
if  you  havena  time  now,"  she  said  ;  and  entreat- 
ed him  to  take  the  block  with  to-day's  drawing, 
which  she  thought  might  be  offered  "in  a  pres- 
ent "  to  the  young  lady. 

"Not  that,  mother,"  said  Rob,  "not  till  it  is 
finished." 

"Pinished!"  she  said,  with  a  disdain  which 
was  complimentary;  "what  would  you  have? 
You  canna  mend  it.  It's  just  the  Kirkton  it- 
sel'." 

And  she  would  have  liked  him  to  put  on  his 
best  black  coat  when  he  went  to  meet  Miss  Mar- 
garet, and  the  tall  hat  he  wore  on  Sundays. 
"When  you  have  good  claes,  why  should  ye  no 
wear  them  ?  She  should  see  that  you  ken  the 
fashion  and  can  keep  the  fashion  with  the  best — 
as  my  poor  purse  will  feel  when  the  bill  comes 
in,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh.  But  at  last  Rob 
managed  to  escape  in  his  ordinary  garments,  and 
with  the  sketches  he  had  chosen.  After  the 
events  of  the  day,  which  had  been  a  kind  of 
crisis  in  his  career,  Rob's  mind  was  full  of  a 
pleasant  excitement;  all  things  seemed  once 
more  to  promise  well  for  him — if  only  this  little 
lady  of  romance  would  keep  her  promise.  Would 
she  come  again?  or  had  he  been  flattering  him- 
self, supposing  a  greater  interest  in  her  mind 
than  really  existed,  or  a  greater  freedom  in  her 
movements  ?  He  lingered  about  for  some  time, 
watching  the  sun  as  it  lighted  up  the  west,  and 
began  to  paint  the  sky  with  crimson  and  purple ; 
and  as  he  watched  it,  Rob  was  natural  enough 
and  innocent  enough  to  forget  most  other  things. 
Who  could  attempt  to  put  that  sky  upon  paper? 
There  was  all  the  fervor  of  first  love  in  his  en- 
thusiasm for  art,  and  as  he  pondered  what  color 
could  give  some  feeble  idea  of  such  a  sky,  he 
thought  no  more  of  Margaret.  What  impossi- 
ble combination  could  do  it?  And  if  it  was 
done,  who  would  believe  in  it  ?  He  looked  at 
the  growing  glory  with  that  despair  of  the  artist 
which  is  in  itself  a  worship.  Rob  was  not  an 
artist  to  speak  of,  yet  he  had  something  of  the 
"feeling"  which  makes  one,  and  all  the  enthu- 
siasm of  a  beginner  just  able  to  make  some  ex- 
pression of  his  delight  in  the  beauty  round  him ; 
and  there  is  no  one  who  sees  that  beauty  so  clear- 
ly, and  all  the  unimaginable  glories  of  the  atmos- 
phere, the  clouds  and  shadows,  the  wonderful  va- 
rieties of  color  of  which  our  northern  heaven  is 
capable,  as  the  artist,  however  humble.  He  was 
absorbed  in  this  consideration,  wondering  how 
to  do  it,  wondering  if  he  ever  could  succeed  in 
catching  that  tone  of  visionary  light,  that  touch 
of  green  amidst  the  blue — or  whether  he  would 
not  be  condemned  as  an  impostor  if  he  tried, 
when  suddenly  his  book  of  sketches  was  softly 
drawn  out  of  his  hand.  Looking  round  with  a 
start,  he  saw  Margaret  by  his  side.  She  had 
stolen  upon  him  ere  he  was  aware,  and  her  laugh 
at  having  taken  him  by  surprise  changed  into 
her  habitual  sudden  blush  as  she  caught  his  eye. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


29 


"  You  need  not  mind  me,"  she  said,  confused. 
"  I  am  very  happy,  looking  at  the  pictures. 
Are  vou  trying  to  make  a  picture  out  of  that 
sky  ?'"' 

"If  I  could,"  he  said;  "hut  I  don't  know 
how  to  do  it;  and  if  I  did,  it  would  not  he  be- 
lieved, though  people  see  the  sunset  every  day. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  Turner,  Miss  Margaret  ?  Do 
you  know  he  was  the  greatest  artist — one  of  the 
greatest  artists  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  his  name ;  but  I  never  saw  any 
pictures,  never  one  except  our  own,  and  a  few 
in  other  houses.  I  have  heard,  or  rather  I  have 
read  that  name.  Did  he  paint  landscapes  like 
you  2" 

"Like  me!"  Rob  laughed.  "You  don't  know 
what  you  are  saying.  I  am  a  poor  creature,  a 
beginner,  a  fellow  that  knows  nothing.  But  he ! 
— and  he  is  very  fond  of  sunsets,  and  paints 
them  ;  but  he  dared  no  more  have  done  that — " 

Margaret  looked  up  curiously  into  the  western 
heavens.  It  was  "all  aflame," and  the  glow  of 
it  threw  a  warm  reflection  upon  her  as  she  looked 
up  wistfully,  with  a  look  of  almost  infantile,  sud- 
denly awakened  wonder.  Her  face  was  very 
grave,  startled,  and  full  of  awe,  like  one  of  Raph- 
ael's child-angels.  The  idea  was  new  to  her. 
She,  who  thought  these  sketches  so  much  more 
interesting  than  the  sunset,  it  gave  her  a  new 
sensation  to  hear  of  the  great  artist  who  had 
never  dared  to  represent  that  which  the  careless 
heavens  accomplish  every  day.  Some  floating 
conception  of  the  greatness  of  that  great  globe 
of  sky  and  air  which  kept  herself  suspended  a 
very  atom  in  its  vastness,  and  of  the  littleness 
of  any  man's  attempt  at  representing  it,  came 
suddenly  upon  her,  then  floated  away  again, 
leaving  her  as  eager  as  ever  over  Rob  Glen's 
poor  little  sketches.  She  turned  them  over  with 
hurried  hands.  Some  were  of  scenes  she  did  not 
know,  the  lochs  and  hills  of  the  West  Highlands, 
which  filled  her  with  delight,  and  now  and  then 
an  old  tumble-down  house,  which  interested  her 
less. 

"Would  you  like  to  draw  Earl's-hall ?."  she 
said.  "I  know  you  have  it  done  in  the  distance. 
But  it  is  grand  in  the  distance,  and  close  at  hand 
it  is  not  so  grand,  it  is  only  funny.  Perhaps 
vou  could  make  a  picture,  Mr. — Glen,  of  Earl's- 
hall  ?" 

"I  should  very  much  like  to  try.  Might  I 
try?     Perhaps  Sir  Ludovic  might  not  like  it." 

"Papa  likes  what  I  like,"  said  Margaret. 
But  then  she  paused.  "  There  is  Bell.  You 
know  Bell,  Mr.— Glen." 

She  made  a  little  pause  before  his  name,  and 
he  smiled.  Perhaps  it  was  better  that  she  should 
not  be  so  easily  familiar  and  call  him  Rob.  The 
touch  of  embarrassment  was  more  attractive. 

"Bell,"  she  added,  with  a  little  furtive  smile, 
avoiding  his  look,  "is  more  troublesome  than 
papa;  and  she  will  go  and  speak  to  papa  when 
she  takes  it  into  her  head." 

"Then  you  do  not  like  Bell?  I  am  wrong, 
I  am  very  wrong;  I  see  it.  You  did  not  mean 
that ! " 

"Not  like — Bell  ?  What  would  happen  if  you 
did  not  care  for  those  that  belong  to  you?" 

"But  Bell  is  only  your  servant — only  your 
house-keeper." 

Margaret  closed  the  sketch-book,  and  looked 
at  him  with  indignant  eves. 


"I  cannot  tell  you  what  Bell  is,"  she  said. 
"  She  is  just  Bell.  She  took  care  of  my  mother, 
and  she  takes  care  of  me.  Who  would  be  like 
Bell  to  me,  if  it  were  the  Queen?  But  some- 
times she  scolds,"  she  added,  suddenly,  coming 
down  in  a  moment  from  her  height  of  serious- 
ness ;  "  and  if  you  come  to  Earl's-hall,  you  must 
make  friends  with  Bell.  I  will  tell  her  you  want 
to  draw  the  house.  She  would  like  to  see  a  pict- 
ure of  the  house,  I  am  sure  she  would ;  and, 
Mr.  Glen,"  said  Margaret,  timidly,  looking  up  in 
his  face,  "you  promised — but  perhaps  you  have 
forgotten — you  promised  to  learn  me — " 

(Learn,  by  one  of  the  curious  turns  of  mean- 
ing not  uncommon  over  the  Border,  means  teach 
in  Scotch,  just  as  to  hire  means  to  be  hired.) 

"Forgotten!"  said  Rob,  his  face,  too,  glowing 
with  the  sunset.  "If  you  will  only  let  me! 
The  worst  is  that  you  will  soon  find  out  how  lit- 
tle I  know." 

"  Not  when  I  look  at  these  beautiful  pictures," 
said  Margaret,  opening  the  sketch-book  again. 
"  Tell  me  where  this  is.  It  is  a  little  dark  loch, 
with  hills  rising  and  rising  all  round ;  here  there 
is  a  point  out  into  the  water  with  a  castle  upon 
it,  all  dim  and  dark ;  but  up  on  the  hills  the  sun 
is  shining.  Oh,  I  would  like,  I  would  like  to 
see  it !  What  bonnie  places  there  must  be  in 
the  world!" 

"It  is  in  the  Highlands.  I  wish  I  could  show 
you  the  place,"  said  Rob.  "The  colors  on  the 
hills  are  far  beyond  a  poor  sketch  of  mine. 
They  are  like  a  beautiful  poem." 

Margaret  looked  up  at  him  again  with  a  misty 
sweetness  in  her  eyes,  a  recognition,  earnest  and 
happy,  of  another  link  of  union. 

"Do  you  like  poetry  too?"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Margaret  went  home  that  evening  with  her 
head  more  full  than  ever  of  the  new  incident 
which  had  come  into  her  life.  More  full  of 
that,  but  not  quite  so  much  occupied,  perhaps, 
by  the  thought  of  her  new  acquaintance.  She 
had  all  the  eagerness  of  a  child  to  begin  her 
studies,  to  learn  how  to  make  pictures  as  he  did, 
and  this  for  the  moment  took  everything  that 
was  dangerous  out  of  the  new  conjunction  of 
young  man  and  young  woman  which  was  quite 
unfamiliar  to  her,  but  which  had  vaguely  im- 
pressed her  on  their  first  meeting.  She  came 
home  this  time  no  longer  in  a  dream  of  roused 
and  novel  feeling,  but  with  definite  aims  before 
her ;  and  when  she  found  Bell,  as  usual,  seated 
outside  the  door  in  the  little  court,  Margaret 
lost  no  time  in  opening  the  attack  on  the  person 
whom  she  knew  to  be  the  most  difficult  and  un- 
likely to  be  convinced. 

"Bell!"  she  cried,  running  in,  breathless  with 
eagerness,  "something  is  going  to  happen  to  me. 
Listen,  Bell !     I  am  going  to  learn  to  draw." 

"Bless  me,  bairn!"  cried  Bell,  drawing  back 
her  chair  in  semi-alarm.  "Is  that  a'?  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  tell  me  the  French  were  com- 
ing. No  that  the  French  have  ony  thought  of 
coming  nowadays,  puir  bodies ;  they've  ower 
muckle  to  do  with  themselves." 

"Bell,  you  don't  take  the  trouble  to  think 
about  me,  and  I  am  so  happy  about  it.     There 


30 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


never  was  a  time  that  I  did  not  care  for  pict- 
ures. And  there's  a  view  of  EaiTs-hall  from 
the  Kirkton,  and  I  cannot  tell  how  many  more. 
You  know  I  always  was  fond  of  pictures,  Bell." 

"No  me!  I  never  knew  you  had  seen  ony, 
Miss  Margret,"  said  Bell,  placidly;  "but  for 
my  part,  I'm  sure  I've  no  objection.  I  would 
like  it  far  better  if  it  was  the  piany ;  but  educa- 
tion's aye  a  grand  thing,  however  it  comes.  Can 
do  is  easy  carried  about." 

"And  will  you  speak  to  papa?"  said  Marga- 
ret. "Bell,  I  wish  you  would  speak  to  papa; 
for  he  jokes  at  me,  and  calls  me  little  Peggy, 
and  you  know  I  am  not  little,  but  quite  grown 
up." 

"Oh,  ay,  as  auld  as  him  or  me — in  your  ain 
conceit,"  said  Bell;  "but  whisht,  my  bonnie 
doo — I  wasna  meaning  to  vex  you.  And  what 
am  I  to  speak  to  Sir  Ludovic  about  ?" 

A  slight  embarrassment  came  over  Margaret. 
She  began  to  fidget  from  one  foot  to  another, 
and  a  sudden  wave  of  color  flushed  over  her 
face.  It  did  not  mean  anything.  Was  it  not 
the  trouble  of  her  life  that  she  blushed  perpetu- 
ally— blushed  for  nothing  at  all,  with  every  fresh 
thought  that  rushed  upon  her,  with  every  new 
impulse  ?  It  was  her  way  of  showing  every  emo- 
tion. Nevertheless  this  time  it  made  her  feel 
uncomfortable,  as  if  it  might  mean  something 
more. 

"  I  told  you,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is  about  learning 
to  draw,  and  about  letting  him  come  here  to 
show  me  the  way." 

"Letting  him  come!  that's  another  story; 
and  who's  him  ?"  said  Bell.  She  made  a  rapid 
mental  review  of  the  county  while  she  spoke — 
puzzled,  yet  not  disconcerted ;  there  was  nobody 
of  whom  the  severest  duenna  could  be  afraid. 
There  was  Sir  Claude — known  to  be  very  fond 
of  pictures — but  Sir  Claude  was  a  douce  mar- 
ried man,  who  was  very  unlikely  to  take  the 
trouble,  and,  even  if  he  did,  would  hurt  nobody. 
"Na,  I  canna  think.  Young  Randal  Burnside 
he's  away ;  that  was  the  only  lad  in  the  country- 
side like  to  be  evened  to  our  Miss  Margret,  and 
him  no  half  or  quarter  good  enough.  Na,  ye 
maun  tell  me ;  there's  no  him  in  the  country 
that  may  not  come  and  go  free  for  anything  I 
care." 

"Why  should  you  care?"  said  Margaret. 
"But  I  will  tell  you  who  it  is.  It  is  Rob  Glen — 
Mrs.  Glen's  son,  at  Earl's-lee.  He  used  to  play 
with  me  when  I  was  little,  and  I  saw  him  draw- 
ing a  picture.  And  then  he  told  me  who  he 
was,  and  then  he  said  he  would  learn  me  to 
draw,  if  I  liked  to  learn — and  you  may  be  sure  I 
would  like  to  learn,  Bell.  Fancy!  to  take  a  bit 
of  paper  out  of  a  book,  and  put  this  house  upon 
it  or  any  other  house,  and  all  the  woods,  and 
the  hills,  and  the  sky.  Look  at  that  puff  of 
cloud !  it's  all  rosy  and  like  a  flower ;  but  in 
a  moment  it  will  be  gray,  and  next  moment  it 
will  be  gone  ;  but  if  you  draw  it  you  have  it  for- 
ever.    It's  wonderful,  wonderful,  Bell!" 

"  Rob  Glen,"  said  Bell,  musing.  She  paid  no 
attention  to  Margaret's  poetical  outburst.  "  Rob 
Glen — that's  him  that  was  to  be  a  minister ;  but 
something's  happened  to  him  ;  he's  no  conductit 
himself  as  he  ought,  or  else  he  tired  of  the  no- 
tion, and  he's  at  hame  doing  naething."  Bell 
paused  after  this  historical  sketch.  "  He  wasna 
an  ill  laddie.     He  was  very  good  to  you,  Miss 


Margret,  when  you  were  but  a  little  trouble- 
some thing,  greeting  for  drinks  of  water,  and 
asking  to  be  carried,  and  wanting  this  and  want- 
ing that,  just  what  puts  a  body  wild  with  bairns.'' 

"Was  I  ?"  said  Margaret,  with  wide-opened 
eyes.  "No!  Rob  never  thought  me  a  trouble. 
You  might  do  so,"  she  added,  with  offence.  "I 
cannot  tell  for  you,  but  I  am  sure  Rob — " 

"I  weel  believe  he  never  said  a  word.  He 
was  great  friends  with  you,  I  mind  well — oh, 
great  friends.  And  so  he  wants  to  learn  you  to 
draw  —  or  you  want  him?  I  see  nae  great  ob- 
jection," said  Bell,  doubtfully.  "  He's  a  young 
man,  but  then  you're  a  leddy  far  above  him ; 
and  you're  old  friends,  as  you  say.  I  will  not 
say  but  what  I  would  rather  he  was  marrit,  Miss 
Margret ;  but  I  see  nae  great  objection — " 

"Married!"  said  Margaret,  her  eyes  bigger 
than  ever  with  wonder  and  amusement — "mar- 
ried!" She  laughed,  though  she  could  scarcely 
have  told  why.  The  idea  amused  her  beyond 
measure.  There  was  something  piquant  in  it, 
something  altogether  absurd.  Rob!  But  why 
the  idea  was  so  ridiculous  she  could  not  say. 
Bell  looked  at  her  in  her  laughter  with  a  certain 
doubt. 

"Why  should  he  no  be  married?"  she  said; 
"lads  of  that  kind  marry  young — they've  nae- 
thing to  wait  for:  the  moment  they  get  a  kirk 
it's  a'  they  can  look  for  —  very  different  from 
some.  I  dinna  ken  what  Sir  Ludovic  may  say," 
she  added,  doubtfully.  "Sir  Ludovic  has  awfu' 
high  notions ;  a  farmer's  son  to  learn  a  Leslie. 
I  canna  tell  how  he'll  take  it." 

"Bell!"  cried  Margaret,  with  indignation, 
"  when  you  know  it's  you  that  have  the  high 
notions !  Papa  would  never  think  of  anything 
of  the  kind ;  but  if  you  go  and  put  them  into 
his  head,  and  tell  him  what  to  think — " 

"Lord  bless  the  bairn,  me!"  cried  Bell,  with 
the  air  of  being  deeply  shocked ;  and  then  she 
got  up  and  went  back  into  her  kitchen,  which 
was  her  stronghold.  Margaret,  for  her  part, 
slightly  discouraged,  but  still  eager,  stole  up- 
stairs. If  Bell  was  against  her,  it  did  not  mat- 
ter very  much  who  was  on  her  side.  She  went 
softly  into  the  long  room  where  her  father  was 
reading.  Would  it  ever  happen  to  her,  she  won- 
dered, to  sit  still  in  one  place  and  read,  whatever 
might  be  going  on  —  never  thinking  what  was 
happening  outside,  untroubled  whether  it  rained 
or  was  fine,  whether  it  was  summer  or  winter? 
Though  she  came  in  and  roamed  about  softly, 
in  a  kind  of  subdued  restlessness,  looking  over 
the  book -shelves,  and  flitting  from  window  to 
window,  Sir  Ludovic  took  no  notice.  With  her 
own  life  so  warm  in  her,  it  was  stranger  and 
stranger  to  Margaret  to  see  that  image  of  the 
calm  of  age ;  how  strange  it  was !  He  had  not 
moved  even,  since  she  came  into  the  room,  while 
she  was  so  restless,  so  eager,  thinking  nothing 
in  the  world  so  important  as  her  present  fancy. 
When  she  had  fluttered  about  for  some  time 
without  attracting  his  notice,  she  grew  impa- 
tient. "Papa,  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she 
said. 

"Eh?  Who  is  that—  ?"  Sir  Ludovic  roused 
up  as  if  he  had  been  asleep;  "you,  little  Peg- 
gy?"' 

"Yes;  were  you  sleeping?  I  wondered  and 
wondered  that  you  never  saw  me." 

"I  don't  think  I  was  asleep,"  he  said,  with  a 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


31 


little  confusion.  "To  tell  the  truth,  I  do  get 
drowsy  sometimes  lately,  and  I  don't  half  like 
it,"  he  added,  in  an  undertone. 

"You  don't  like  it?"  said  Margaret:  she  was 
not  uneasy,  but  she  was  sympathetic.  "But 
then  don't  do  it,  papa ;  come  and  take  a  little 
walk  with  me  " —  (here  she  paused,  remembering 
that  to-night,  for  instance,  Sir  Ludovic  would 
have  been  much  out  of  place),  "or  a  turn  in  the 
garden,  like  John." 

Sir  Ludovic  paid  not  much  attention  to  what 
she  said:  he  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  raised  his 
head,  shaking  himself  with  a  determination  to 
overcome  the  drowsiness,  which  was  a  trouble  to 
him.  "You  must  sit  with  me  more,  my  little 
girl,  and  make  a  noise ;  a  little  sound  is  life-like. 
This  stillness  gets  like  " —  (he  made  a  pause ; 
was  the  first  word  that  occurred  to  him  an  un- 
pleasant one,  not  such  as  was  agreeable  to  pro- 
nounce?)— "like  sleep,"  he  added,  after  a  mo- 
ment, "and  I  have  no  wish  to  go  to  sleep." 

"Sleeping  is  not  pleasant  in  the  daytime," 
said  Margaret,  unintentionally  matter-of-fact. 
The  old  man  gave  a  slight  shiver,  which  she  did 
not  understand.  It  was  no  longer  the  daytime 
with  him,  and  this  was  precisely  why  he  dis- 
liked his  unconscious  doze ;  was  it  not  a  sign 
that  .night  was  near?  He  raised  himself  in  his 
chair,  and  with  the  almost  mechanical  force  of 
habit  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  book 
before  him.  It  was  evident  he  had  not  heard 
her  appeal.  She  stood  by  for  a  moment  not 
saying  anything,  then  pulled  his  sleeve  gently. 

"Papa!  it  was  something  I  had  to  say." 

"Ay,  to  be  sure.  You  wanted  something, 
my  little  Peggy  ?  what  was  it  ?  There  are  not 
many  things  I  can  do,  but  if  it  is  within  my 
power — " 

"Papa!  how  strange  to  speak  to  me  so — you 
can  do  everything  I  want,"  said  the  girl.  "And 
this  is  what  it  is  :  I  want — don't  be  very  much 
astonished — to  learn  to  draw." 

' '  To  draw  ?  I  am  afraid  I  am  no  good  in 
that  respect,  and  cannot  teach  you,  my  dear." 

"  You  ?  Oh  no !  But  there  is  one  that  would 
learn  me." 

"My  little  Peggy,  you  are  too  Scotch — say 
teach." 

"Very  well,  teach  if  you  like,  papa ;  what  does 
the  word  matter  ?  But  may  he  come  to  the  house, 
and  may  I  have  lessons  ?  I  think  it  is  the  only 
thing  that  is  wanted  to  make  me  perfectly  hap- 

py." 

Sir  Ludovic  smiled.  "In  that  case  you  had 
better  begin  at  once.  Mr.  Ruskin  himself  ought 
to  teach  you,  after  such  a  sentiment.  At  once, 
my  Peggy !  for  I  would  have  you  perfectly  hap- 
py if  I  could.  Poor  child,  who  knows  what  may 
happen  after,"  he  said,  meditatively,  putting  his 
hand  upon  her  arm  and  smoothing  the  sleeve 
caressingly.  Margaret,  occupied  with  her  own 
thoughts,  did  not  take  in  the  meaning  of  this ; 
but  she  was  vaguely  discouraged  by  the  tone. 

' '  You  are  not  like  yourself,  papa ;  what  has 
happened  ?"  she  said,  almost  impatiently.  "  You 
are  not — ill?     It  is  waking  up,  I  suppose." 

"Just  that — or  going  to  sleep  —  one  or  the 
other.  No,  no,  I  am  not  ill ;  yet —  And  let  us 
be  comfortable,  my  little  girl.  Draw?  Yes, 
you  shall  learn  to  draw,  and  sit  by  me,  quiet  as 
a  little  mouse  with  bright  eyes." 

"  You  said  just  now  I  was  to  make  a  noise." 
3        " 


"To  be  sure,  so  I  did.  I  say  one  thing  one 
moment,  and  another  the  next ;  but,  after  all,  they 
are  much  the  same.  So  you  sit  by  me,  you  may 
be  quiet  or  make  a  noise — it  will  be  all  the  same. 
Your  noises  are  quiet,  my  Peggy.  Your  sleeve 
rustling,  your  hand  moving,  and  a  little  impa- 
tience now  and  then,  a  start  and  a  shake  of  your 
little  head.  These  are  noises  an  old  man  likes 
when  Providence  has  given  him  a  little  girl." 

"But  really,"  said  Margaret,  with  a  crease  in 
her  forehead,  "really!  I  am  grown-up  —  I  am 
not  a  little  girl!" 

"Well,  my  Peggy !  it  will  be  so  much  the  bet- 
ter for  you,"  he  said,  patting  her  sleeve.  Mar- 
garet was  vaguely  chilled  by  this  acquiescence, 
she  could  scarcely  tell  why ;  and  the  slight  pain 
made  her  impatient,  calling  up  a  little  auger, 
causeless  and  vague  as  itself. 

"  Don't,  papa,"  she  said.  "  You  are  not  like 
yourself.  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
you.     Then,  he  may  come  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  at  once,"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  with  a 
dreamy  smile;  then  he  said,  "But  who  is  it?" 
as  if  this  mattered  little.  Altogether,  Margaret 
felt  he  was  not  like  himself. 

"Do  you  remember  Rob  Glen,  papa,  the  son 
of  Mrs.  Glen  at  Earl's-lee  ?  He  used  to  play  with 
me  when  I  was  a  child  ;  he  was  always  very  kind 
to  me.  Oh,  don't  shake  your  head ;  you  must 
mind  him.     Robert  Glen  at  the  farm  ?" 

"I  mind,  as  you  say  —  Scotch,  Scotch,  little 
Peggy ;  you  should  not  be  so  Scotch — a  Robert 
Glen  who  took  the  farm  thirty  or  forty  years  ago. 
By-the-bye,  the  lease  must  be  almost  out ;  but 
how  you  are  to  get  drawing  or  anything  else  out 
of  a  rough  farmer — " 

"Papa!" — Margaret  put  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder  with  impatience — "how  could  it  be  a 
Robert  Glen  of  thirty  or  forty  years  ago  ?  He  is 
only  a  little  older  than  me.  He  played  with  me 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.  He  is  perhaps  the  son, 
or  he  may  be  the  grandson.  He  is  a  little  older 
than  me." 

"Get  your  pronouns  right,  my  little  Peggy. 
Ah !  the  son ;  va  pour  lejils," said  Sir  Ludovic, 
with  a  drowsy  smile,  and  turned  back  to  his  book. 
Margaret  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  looking  at  him  with  that  irritation 
which  is  the  earliest  form  of  pain.  A  vague  un- 
easiness came  into  her  mind,  but  it  was  so  veiled 
in  this  impatience  that  she  did  not  recognize  it 
for  what  it  was.  The  only  conscious  feeling  she 
had  was,  how  provoking  of  papa!  not  to  take 
more  interest,  not  to  ask  more,  not  to  say  any- 
thing. Then  she  dropped  her  hand  from  his 
shoulder  and  turned  away,  and  went  to  sit  in  the 
window  with  the  first  chance  book  she  could 
pick  up.  She  was  not  thinking  much  about  the 
book.  She  was  half  annoyed  and  disappointed 
to  have  got  her  own  way  so  easily.  Had  he  un- 
derstood her  ?  Margaret  did  not  feel  quite  hap- 
py about  this  facile  assent.  It  made  of  Rob 
Glen  no  wonder  at  a41,  no  disturbing  individual- 
ity. He  was  something  more,  after  all,  than  Sir 
Ludovic  thought.  What  was  all  her  own  tre- 
mor for,  if  it  was  to  be  lightly  met  with  a  va  pour 
le  jils  ?  She  was  not  satisfied ;  and  indeed  the 
little  rustlings  of  her  impatience,  her  subdued 
movements,  as  she  sat  behind,  did  all  for  her  fa- 
ther that  he  wanted.  They  kept  him  awake. 
The  drowsiness  which  comforted  him,  yet  which 
he  was  afraid  of,  fled  before  this  little  thrill  of 


32 


THE  PRIMHOSE  PATH. 


movement.  Even  if  she  had  been  altogether 
quiet,  is  there  not  a  thrill  and  reverberation  in 
the  air  about  a  thinking  creature?  Sir  Ludovie 
was  kept  awake  and  alive  by  the  consciousness 
of  another  near  him,  living  in  every  nerve,  filling 
the  silence  with  a  little  thrill  of  independent  be- 
ing. This  kept  him,  not  only  from  dozing,  but 
even  from  active  occupation  with  his  book.  Af- 
ter a  little  while  he  too  began  to  be  restless, 
turned  the  pages  hastily,  then  himself  turned 
half  round  toward  her.  "My  Peggy !"  he  said. 
In  a  moment  she  was  standing  by  his  side. 

"  What  is  it  ?     Did  you  want  me,  papa  ?" 

"No,  it  is  nothing,  only  to  see  that  you  were 
there.  I  heard  you,  that  was  all ;  and  in  the 
sound  there  was  something  strange,  like  a  spirit 
behind  me — or  a  little  mouse,  as  I  said  before." 

"  Had  I  better  go  away  ?  would  you  rather  be 
without  me?" 

"  No,  my  little  girl ;  but  sit  in  my  sight,  that 
I  may  not  be  puzzled.  The  thing  is  that  I  can 
feel  you  thinking,  my  Peggy." 

"Papa!  I  was  not  thinking  so  much — not  of 
anything  in  particular,  not  to  disturb  yon." 

"No,  my  dear,  I  am  not  complaining;  they 
were  very  soft  little  thoughts,  but  I  heard  them. 
Sit  now  where  I  can  see  you,  and  all  will  go 
right." 

"Yes,  papa.  And  yon  are  sure  you  have  no 
objections?"  Margaret  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  standing  by  him  still. 

"To  what?  to  the  teaching  of  the  drawing? 
Oh,  no  objections — not  the  least  objection." 

"And  you  don't  mind  him  coming  to  the 
house — I  mean — Mr.  Glen  ?" 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  mind?" 
the  old  man  asked,  quickly,  rousing  into  some- 
thing like  vigilance. 

"  Oh  no,  papa  ;  but  I  thought  perhaps  be- 
cause he  was  not — the  same  as  us — because  he 
was  only — the  farmer's  son." 

"This  is  wisdom  ;  this  is  social  science  :  this 
is  worthy  of  Jean  and  Grace,"  said  Sir  Ludovie. 
"My  little  Peggy!  I  do  not  know,  my  child. 
Is  this  all  out  of  your  own  head  ?" 

At  this  Margaret  drooped  a  little,  with  one 
of  her  usual  overwhelming  blushes.  "It  was 
Bell,"  she  said;  but  was  it  indeed  all  Bell? 
Some  instinct  in  her  had  made  a  more  penetrat- 
ing suggestion,  but  she  could  not  tell  this  to  her 
father.  She  waited  with  downcast  eyes  for  his 
reply. 

"Ah,  it  was  Bell.  I  am  glad  my  little  Peg- 
gy was  not  so  clever  and  so  far-seeing  ;  now  run 
and  play,  my  little  girl,  run  away  and  play, "he 
said,  dismissing  her  in  his  usual  tone.  She  had 
roused  him  at  last  to  his  ordinary  mood,  and 
neither  he  nor  she  thought  more  of  his  desire 
that  she  should  stay  in  his  sight.  Margaret  went 
away  with  her  heart  beating  to  the  west  cham- 
ber, which  was  her  legitimate  sitting-room.  She 
was  half  ashamed  of  her  own  fears  about  Bob, 
which  her  father  had  treated  so  lightly.  Was 
it  entirely  Bell  that  had  put  it  into  her  head  that 
this  new  visitor  might  be  objected  to?  And  was 
it  entirely  because  he  was  the  farmer's  son? 
Margaret  was  too  much  puzzled  and  confused 
to  be  able  to  answer  these  questions.  She  was 
like  a  little  ship  setting  out  to  sea  without  any 
pilot.  An  instinct  in  her  whispered  the  neces- 
sity for  guidance,  whispered  some  faint  doubts 
whether  this  step  she  was  taking  was  a  right 


one ;  but  what  could  the  little  ship  do  when  the 
man  at  the  helm  was  so  tranquilly  careless? 
At  seventeen  is  one  wiser  than  at  seventy-five? 
It  is  not  only  presumptuous,  it  is  irreligious  to 
think  so.  And  when  her  own  faint  doubt  was 
laughed  at  by  her  father  as  being  of  the  order 
of  the  ideas  of  Jean  and  Grace,  what  could  Mar- 
garet do  but  be  ashamed  of  it?  Jean  and  Grace 
were  emblems  of  the  conventional  and  artificial 
to  Sir  Ludovie.  He  could  not  speak  of  them 
without  a  laugh,  though  they  were  his  children  ; 
neither  did  they  approve  of  their  father  —  with 
some  reason  it  may  be  thought. 

Thus  it  was  settled  that  Bob  Glen  should  have 
access  to  Earl's-hall.  Bell  shook  her  head,  but 
she  did  not  interfere.  "  It  will  divert  the  bairn," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  and  I  can  aye  keep  my  eye 
upon  him."  What  was  the  need  of  disturbing 
Sir  Ludovie,  honest  man  ?  The  Leslies  had 
their  faults,  Bell  reflected,  but  falling  in  love  be- 
neath them  was  not  their  weakness.  They 
were  very  friendly,  but  very  proud.  "As  sweet 
and  as  kind  to  the  poorest  body  as  if  they 
were  their  own  kith  and  kin ;  but  it's  hitherto 
mayst  thou  come,  and  no  a  step  furder,"  said 
Bell;  "that's  the  way  o'  them  all.  Even  our 
Miss  Margret,  I  w-ould  advise  nobody  to  go  too 
far  with  her.  She's  very  young.  She  disna  un- 
derstand herself;  but  as  for  the  canailje,  I  would 
not  counsel  them  to  come  near  by  our  young 
leddy,  simple  as  she  is;  there's  just  an  instinck  ; 
it's  in  the  Leslie  blood." 

Thus  all  went  smoothly  in  this  first  essay  of 
wilfulness.  Father  and  old  duenna  both  con- 
sented that  the  risk  should  be  run.  But  in  Mar- 
garet's own  mind  there  was  one  pause  of  hesita- 
tion. Had  there  been  any  opposition  to  her  will 
she  would  have  upheld  Bob  Glen  to  the  utmost, 
and  insisted  upon  her  drawingdessons ;  but  as 
it  was,  there  came  a  check  to  her  eagerness 
which  she  did  not  understand,  a  subtle  sort  of 
hinderance  in  her  path,  a  hesitation — because 
no  one  else  hesitated.     Was  that  all  ? 

From  this  it  will  be  seen  that  the  ladies  Jean 
and  Grace  were  not  so  wrong  as  was  supposed 
at  Earl's-hall,  when  they  shook  their  heads  over 
their  father's  proceedings,  and  declared  that  he 
was  not  capable  of  being  trusted  with  the  charge 
of  a  young  girl.  Any  young  girl  would  have 
been  rather  unsafe  in  such  hands,  but  a  girl  with 
money,  a  girl  who  was  an  heiress!  As  for  Sir 
Ludovie,  he  went  on  serenely  with  his  reading, 
or  dozed  over  his  book  in  the  long  room,  and 
took  no  notice,  or  thought  no  more  of  the  new 
teacher  Margaret  had  got  for  herself.  He  was 
very  glad  she  should  do  anything  that  pleased 
her.  Now  and  then  he  was  anxious,  and  his 
mind  was  occupied,  by  the  drowsiness  which 
came  over  him.  He  did  not  like  this,  it  was 
not  a  good  sign.  It  made  his  mind  uneasy,  for 
he  was  an  old  man,  and  knew  he  could  not  go 
on  forever,  and  the  idea  of  death  was  far  from 
pleasant  to  him.  This  he  was  anxious  about, 
but  about  his  child  he  was  not  anxious.  She 
was  not  going  to  die,  or  anything  to  happen  to 
her.  She  had  a  long  time  before  her,  in  which, 
no  doubt,  many  things  would  happen  ;  and  why 
should  her  father  begin  so  early  to  make  himself 
uncomfortable  about  her?     lie  did  not  see  the 


THE  PBIMBOSB  PATH. 


33 


CHAPTER  IX. 

While  these  events  were  going  on  in  the 
long  room,  and  up  the  spiral  stairs,  thoughts  not 
less  important  to  her  than  those  that  moved  her 
young  mistress  were  going  on  in  the  head  of 
Jeanie,  the  young  maid-servant  at  Earl's-hall. 
Jeanie  had  been  chosen  as  her  assistant  by  Bell 
on  account  of  her  excellent  character  and  ante- 
cedents, and  the  credit  and  respectability  of  all 
belonging  to  her.  "An  honest  man's  daugh- 
ter," Bell  said,  "a  man  just  by-ordinary;"  and 
the  girl  herself  was  so  well  spoken  of,  so  pretty 
spoken  in  her  own  person,  with  such  an  artless 
modesty  in  the  soft  chant  of  her  voice,  true  Fife 
and  of  "the  East  Neuk,  that  there  had  been  noth- 
ing to  say  against  the  wisdom  of  the  choice. 
Jeanie  was  always  smiling,  always  good-humor- 
ed, fresh  as  a  rose  and  as  clean,  singing  softly 
about  her  work,  with  the  natural  freedom  yet 
sweet  respectfulness  which  makes  a  Scotch  lass 
so  ingratiating  an  attendant.  Jeanie  could  not 
have  waited  even  upon  a  stranger  without  a  cer- 
tain tender  anxiety  and  affectionate  interest — 
a  desire  not  only  to  please,  but  to  "pleasure" 
the  object  of  her  cares,  i.  e.,  to  give  them  pleas- 
ure with  sympathetic  divining  of  all  they  want- 
ed. Whether  it  was  her  "place  "  or  not  to  do 
one  thing  or  another,  what  did  it  matter?  Her 
own  genuine  pleasure  in  the  cleanness  and  neat- 
ness she  spread  round  her,  and  in  the  comfort 
of  those  she  served,  reached  the  length  of  an 
emotion.  It  did  her  heart  good  to  bring  order 
out  of  chaos,  to  make  dimness  bright,  and  to 
clear  away  stain  and  spot  out  of  her  way.  She 
had  been  two  years  at  Earl's  -  hall,  and  before 
that  had  been  away  as  far  as  the  west  country, 
where  her  mother's  friends  were.  Jeanie  was 
her 'father's  only  daughter,  and  great  was  his 
comfort  and  rejoicing  when  she  came  back  to 
be  so  near  him ;  for  John  Robertson  was  not 
well  enough  off  to  keep  her  with  him  at  home, 
nor  could  he  have  thought  it  good  for  Jeanie 
to  keep  her  in  his  little  cottage  "learning  nae- 
thing,"  as  he  said.  Perhaps  there  had  risen 
upon  Jeanie's  bright  countenance  some  cloud  of 
uneasiness  during  these  recent  days ;  at  least  it 
had  occurred  to  Bell,  she  could  scarcely  tell  how, 
that  something  more  than  usual  was  in  the  girl's 
mind.  "It'll  do  you  good  to  go  and  have  a 
crack  with  your  father,"  she  had  said,  the  day 
after  Margaret's  second  meeting  with  Rob  Glen. 
Perhaps  Bell  wanted  to  have  her  young  lady  all 
to  herself —  perhaps  it  was  only  consideration 
for  Jeanie. 

"You  can  go  as  soon  as  the  dinner  is  up," 
she  said,  "and  take  the  old  man  a  print  o'  our 
sweet  butter  and  twa- three  eggs.  It'll  please 
him  to  see  you  mind  upon  him." 

"No  me,  but  you,"  said  Jeanie;  "and  I'm 
real  obliged  to  you,  Bell." 

Perhaps  a  rigid  moralist  would  have  said  it 
was  not  Bell,  but  Sir  Ludovic,  who  had  the  right 
to  send  these  twa-three  eggs ;  but  such  a  critic 
would  have  met  with  little  charity  at  Earl's-hall, 
where,  indeed,  Bell's  thrift  and  care,  and  nota- 
ble management,  as  constant  and  diligent  as  if 
the  house-keeping  had  been  her  own,  kept  plenty 
as  well  as  order  in  the  house ;  nor  did  it  ever 
occur  to  the  good  woman  that  she  was  not  free 
to  give  as  well  as  to  increase  this  simple  kind  of 
household  wealth.     Jeanie  set  out  in  the  sum- 


mer evening,  after  six  o'clock,  when  she  had  de- 
livered the  last  dish  into  John's  hands.  She 
went  along  the  country  road  with  neither  so 
light  a  step  nor  so  light  a  heart  as  those  which 
had  carried  Margaret  in  dreamy  pleasantness 
between  the  same  hedges,  all  blossomed  with  the 
sweet  flaunting  of  the  wild  rose. 

Jeanie,  as  was  natural,  being  three-and-twen- 
ty  and  a  hard-working  woman,  was  more  solid 
and  substantial  than  the  Laird's  daughter  at 
seventeen ;  but  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
imagine  a  more  pleasant  object,  or  one  more  en- 
tirely suiting  and  giving  expression  to  the  rural 
road  along  which  she  moved,  than  was  Jeanie, 
a  true  daughter  of  the  soil.  She  was  not  tall  or 
slim,  but  of  middle  height,  round  and  neat  and 
well  proportioned,  with  a  beautiful  complexion, 
impaired  by  nothing  but  a  few  freckles,  and 
golden-brown  hair,  much  more  "in  the  fashion," 
with  its  crisp  undulations  and  luxuriant  growth, 
than  the  brown  silky  locks  of  her  young  mis- 
tress. Dark  eyes  and  eyelashes  gave  a  touch  of 
higher  beauty  to  the  fair,  fresh  face,  which  had 
no  particular  features,  but  an  air  of  modesty, 
honesty,  sweet  good  temper,  and  kindness  very 
delightful  to  behold.  She  was  "a  bonnie  lass," 
no  more,  not  the  beauty  or  reigning  princess  of 
the  neighborhood,  or  playing  any  fatal  role  in 
the  country-side.  Jeanie  was  too  good,  too  sim- 
ple and  kind,  for  any  such  position ;  but  she 
was  a  bonnie  lass,  and  "weel  respectit,"  and 
had  her  suitors  like  another. 

As  she  went  along  by  herself  in  that  perfect 
ease  of  solitude,  unseen  by  any  eye,  which  sub- 
dues all  instincts  of  pride  and  self-command,  a 
vague  cloud  became  visible  on  her  face.  The 
smile  with  which  she  met  her  little  world,  true 
always,  yet  true  sometimes  rather  in  the  sense 
of  self-denial  than  of  fact,  faded  away ;  her  sim- 
ple countenance  grew  serious,  a  curve  of  anxie- 
ty came  into  her  forehead,  not  deadly  anxiety, 
such  as  wrings  the  heart,  but  a  wistfulness  and 
longing  for  something  unattained ;  for  something, 
perhaps,  which  ought  to  be  attained,  and  which 
might  end  in  being  a  wrong  if  withheld  from 
her.  Nothing  so  abstruse  as  this  could  be  read 
in  Jeanie's  face,  which  would  besides  have  clear- 
ed up  and  awoke  into  the  soft  sunshine  of  friend- 
ly response,  had  any  one  met  her ;  but  as  she 
went  on  alone,  with  nobody  to  see,  there  was  a 
gravity  in  her  eyes,  a  wistfulness  in  the  look 
which  she  cast  along  the  field-path  which  Mar- 
garet had  followed  so  pleasantly,  which  was  not 
like  Jeanie.  Was  she  looking  for  some  one  who 
ought  to  be  coming  along  that  green  and  flow- 
ery path  ?  She  breathed  out  a  soft  little  sigh 
as  she  went  on.  "My  faither  will  ken,"  Jeanie 
said  to  herself;  and  though  there  was  this  anxie- 
ty in  her  face,  a  certain  languor  was  in  her  step, 
as  of  one  by  no  means  confident  that  the  news 
she  is  going  to  seek  will  be  comforting  to  hear. 

The  Kirkton,  to  which  Jeanie  was  bound,  and 
of  which  Rob  Glen  had  made  so  many  sketches, 
was,  as  already  said,  an  irregular  village  sur- 
rounding the  kirk  from  which  it  took  its  name, 
and  built  upon  a  mound,  which  stood  eminent 
over  the  low  rich  fields  of  Stratheden.  The 
greater  portion  of  the  church  was  new,  and  quite 
in  accordance  with  the  eighteenth-century  idea 
of  half-barn-half-meeting-house  which,  unfortu- 
nately, in  so  many  cases  represents  the  parish 
church  in  Scotland.     But  this  was  all  the  worse 


31 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


in  the  present  case,  from  being  added  on  to  a 
beautiful  relic  of  the  past,  the  chancel  of  an  old 
Norman  church,  still  in  perfect  preservation,  not 
resenting,  but  silently  indicating  with  all  the 
force  of  fact,  the  incredible  difference  between 
the  work  of  the  united  and  catholic  past,  and 
the  expedient  of  a  Scotch  heritor  to  house  at  the 
smallest  possible  cost,  the  national  worship  which 
he  himself  is  too  fine  to  share.  The  little  round 
apsis  of  the  original  church,  with  its  twisted 
arches  and  toothed  ornaments,  brown  with  age 
and  lichen,  and  graceful,  natural  decay,  was  the 
only  part  of  it  visible  from  the  road  along  which 
our  Jeanie  was  coming.  Jeanie  neither  knew 
nor  cared  for  the  Norman  arches,  but  the  grassy 
mound  that  rose  above  her  head,  with  its  grave- 
stones, and  the  high  steps  which  led  up  to  it, 
upon  which  the  children  clustered,  were  dear 
and  familiar  to  her  eyes. 

At  the  foot  of  the  kirk  steps  was  a  road  which 
led  to  "the  laigh  toun,"  a  little  square  or  place 
— semi-French,  as  are  so  many  things  in  Scot- 
land— surrounded  by  cottages ;  while  the  road, 
which  wound  round  the  base  of  the  elevation 
on  which  the  church  stood,  took  in  "the  laigh 
toun,"  in  which  was  the  post-office  and  the  shop, 
and  the  "Leslie  Arms,"  and  two  or  three  two- 
storied  houses,  vulgar  and  ugly  in  their  blue 
slates,  which  were  the  most  important  dwellings 
in  the  Kirkton.  Jeanie,  however,  had  nothing 
to  do  with  these  respectable  erections  ;  her  steps 
were  turned  toward  the  high  town,  where  her 
father's  cottage  was.  Everybody  knew  her  on 
the  familiar  road.  "Is  that  you,  Jeanie?"  the 
men  said,  going  home  from  their  work  with  long 
leisurely  tread,  which  looked  slow,  yet  devoured 
the  way.  The  children  on  the  kirk  steps  "  cried 
upon  her"  with  one  voice,  or  rather  with  one 
chant,  modulating  the  long-drawn  vowels  with 
the  native  sing-song  of  Fife.  Even  Dr.  Burn- 
side,  walking  stately  down  the  brae,  shedding  a 
wholesome  awe  about  him,  with  hands  under  his 
coat-tails,  stopped  to  speak  to  her. 

"Your  father  is  very  well,  honest  man,"  the 
Doctor  said.  When  she  reached  the  little  square 
beyond  the  church,  where  the  women  were  sit- 
ting at  their  doors  in  the  soft  evening  air,  or 
standing  in  groups,  each  with  her  stocking,  talk- 
ing across  the  open  space  like  one  family,  a  uni- 
versal greeting  arose. 

"Eh,  Jeanie,  lass,  you're  a  sight  for  sair 
een!"  they  cried.  "Eh,  but  the  auld  man  will 
be  pleased  to  see  you;"  and  "He's  real  weel, 
Jeanie,  my  woman,"  was  added  by  various 
voices.  This  was  evidently  the  point  on  which 
she  was  supposed  to  be  anxious.  The  girl  nod- 
ded to  them  all  with  friendly  salutations.  They 
had  their  little  bickerings,  no  doubt,  now  and 
then ;  but  were  they  not  one  family,  each  know- 
ing everything  that  concerned  the  others  ? 

"I'm  real  pleased  to  see  you  a',  neebors," 
Jeanie  said;  "but  I  maunna  bide.  I've  come 
to  see  my  faither." 

"That's  right,  Jeanie,  lass,"  the  women  said; 
"he's  been  a  good  faither  to  you,  and  weel  he 
deserves  it  at  your  hand."  "Faither  and  mither 
baith,"  said  another  commentator;  and  Jeanie 
went  on  with  a  warm  light  of  pleasure  and  kind- 
ness in  her  face.  Perhaps  her  name  in  the  air 
had  caught  her  father's  ear,  though  no  name 
was  more  common  than  Jeanie,  or  more  often 
heard  in  "the  laigh  toun;"  or  perhaps  it  was 


that  more  subtle  personal  influence  which  her- 
alds a  new-comer — magnetical,  electrical,  who 
can  tell  what?  As  she  made  her  way  to  the 
end  of  the  square,  where  it  communicated  by 
a  steep  street  with  "the  laigh  toun"  below,  he 
came  out  to  his  cottage  door.  He  was  a  tall 
man,  thin  and  stooping,  and  very  pale,  his  face 
sicklied  o'er  with  more  than  thought.  He  wore 
the  sign  of  his  trade,  a  shoemaker's  apron,  and 
looked  along  the  line  of  houses  with  a  wistful 
expression,  like  that  which  Jeanie  had  worn 
when  she  Was  alone.  He  was  a  man  "above 
the  common,"  everybody  said,  for  long  years  a 
widower,  who  had  been  "faither  and  mither 
baith  "  to  his  children  ;  and  only  some  of  them 
had  repaid  poor  John.  Those  of  the  lads  who 
were  good  lads  had  emigrated  and  gone  far  out 
of  his  neighborhood,  and  those  who  were  within 
reach  were  not  models  of  virtue.  But  Jeanie 
had  always  been  his  support  and  stay.  His 
wistful  inquiring  look  yielded  to  the  tenderest 
pleasure  as  he  perceived  her ;  but  there  was  no 
enthusiasm  of  greeting  between  the  father  and 
daughter.  Few  embracings  are  to  be  seen  in 
Scotch  peasant  families.  The  cobbler's  face 
lighted  up  ;  be  said,  "Is  that  you,  Jeanie,  my 
bonnie  woman  ?"  with  a  tone  that  had  more  than 
endearment  in  it.  The  sight  of  her  brought  a 
glow  to  his  wan  face.  "You  are  as  good  as  the 
blessed  sunshine,  my  lass — and  eh,  but  I'm  glad 
to  see  you !" 

"And  me  too,  faither,"  said  Jeanie.  That 
was  their  greeting.  "They  tell  me  you're  real 
well,"  she  added,  as  they  went  in-doors. 

"A  great  deal  they  ken,"  said  John  Robert- 
son, with  that  natural  dislike  to  be  pronounced 
well  by  the  careless  outside  world  which  every 
invalid  shares.  "But  I'm  no  that  bad  either," 
he  added,  "and  muckle  the  better  for  seeing 
you.     Come  in  and  sit  you  down." 

"I  have  but  little  time  to  stay,"  said  Jeanie. 

As  she  went  in  before  him  the  shade  again  re- 
turned to  her  face,  though  only  for  that  moment 
during  which  it  was  unseen.  The  small  window 
of  the  cottage  gave  but  a  dim  greenish  light,  a 
sort  of  twilight  after  the  full  glow  and  gladness 
outside.  But  they  were  used  to  this  partial 
gloom  ;  and  there  seemed  a  consciousness  on  the 
father's  part  as  well  as  the  daughter's  of  some- 
thing serious  that  there  might  be  to  say.  He 
looked  at  her  closely,  yet  half  stealthily,  with  the 
vivacious,  dark  eyes  which  lighted  up  his  pale 
face;  but  he  asked  no  question.  And  Jeanie, 
for  her  part,  said  nothing  about  herself.  She 
asked  when  he  had  seen  Willie,  and  if  all  was 
well  with  John,  and  he  replied,  shaking  his  head, 

"Oh,  ay,  weel  enough,  weel  enough  for  such 
a  ne'er-do-weel." 

"No  a  ne'er-do-weel,  faither.  Poor  laddie! 
he's  so  easy  led  away ;  but  by-and-by  he'll  tak' 
a  thought  and  mend." 

"Like  the  de'il — at  least,  accordin'  to  Robert 
Burns.  Ay,  ay,  Jeanie,  by-and-by !  But  maybe 
he'll  break  our  hearts  afore  then." 

"And  Willie,  faither?" 

"Since  Willie  'listed,  I  try  to  think  of  him 
nae  mair,"  said  the  cobbler,  with  a  quiver  in  his 
lips ;  then  he  added,  "But  he'll  be  held  weel  un- 
der authority,  as  the  centurion  says  in  Scripture, 
and  maybe  it's  the  best  thing  that  could  have 
happened  for  himself." 

"  That's  aye  what  Bell  says — " 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


35 


"Bell!  and  what  does  Bell  ken  about  it — a 
woman  that  never  had  a  son !  If  I  were  to  have 
my  family  over  again,  I  would  pray  for  a'  lasses, 
Jeanie,  my  woman,  like  you." 

"Eh,  faither!  but  you  mustna  forget  Robin 
and  Alick,  though  they're  far  away ;  and  a'  the 
lasses  are  no  like  me,"  said  Jeanie,  with  a  tear 
and  a  smile.  "I  might  have  been  marriet,  and 
far  from  hame  ;  or  I  might  have  been  licht-head- 
ed ;"  this  she  said,  with  a  faith  laugh  at  the  idea, 
and  rising  blush;  for  to  be  anything  different 
from  her  modest  self  was  half  incredible,  half 
alarming.     The  cobbler  shook  his  head. 

"Another  might,  but  no  my  Jean.  But  what 
is  sent  is  the  best,  if  we  could  but  see  it,  nae 
doubt,  nae  doubt." 

"And  that  minds  me,"  she  said,  abruptly, 
with  a  Little  gasp  of  rising  agitation.  Then  she 
stopped  herself  as  quickly;  "how  is  the  work 
getting  on  ?  have  ye  aye  plenty  jobs  to  keep  ye  go- 
ing, faither?"  she  added,  as  by  an  after-thought. 

"No  that  bad,"  said  the  shoemaker.  "  Plen- 
ty wark — pay's  no  just  the  same  thing.  There 
was  three  pair  last  week  for  Merran  Linsay,  you 
ken  she's  aye  to  be  trusted." 

"Trusted!"  said  Jeanie,  "  ay,  for  kindness 
and  a  good  heart,  but  for  the  siller — " 

"  My  heart's  wae  for  the  poor  decent  woman," 
said  John  Robertson,  "with  aye  the  wolf  at  her 
door.  The  shoes  thae  bairns  gang  through  !  no 
to  speak  of  other  things.  How  could  I  bid  her 
depart,  and  get  something  elsewhere  to  put  on 
their  feet  when  she  came  to  me?  Would  you 
ca'  that  Christianity — no  that  I'm  blaming  them 
that  can  do  it,"  he  added,  hastily.  "Na,  whiles 
I  wish  I  could  do  it;  but  nature's  mair  strong 
than  wishing — " 

"You  are  aye  the  anld  man,"  said  Jeanie, 
tenderly;  "it's  real  foolish,  faither,  but  I  canna 
blame  ye.  I  like  ye  a'  the  better.  You  would 
make  shoes  for  a'  the  parish,  and  never  take  a 
penny." 

"Na,  na,  lass  !  there  you're  wrong,"  he  said, 
briskly.  "J[  charged  a  shilling  mair  than  the 
price  to  auld  Will  Heriot,  nae  further  gane  than 
Friday  last.  He  was  in  an  awfu'  hurry,  and 
awfu'  ill  tempered.  I  put  on  a  shilling,"  said 
the  cobbler,  with  a  low  laugh.  "In  the  abstract 
it  wasna  right,  and  I'll  no  say  but  I  may  gie  it 
back ;  but  the  auld  Adam  is  strong  now  and 
then." 

"No  half  strong  enough,"  said  Jeanie.  "I 
wouldna  gie  him  back,  no  a  brass  farden. "  Then 
she  paused,  and  her  countenance  changed  again — 
that  scarcely  perceptible  darkening,  paling,  came 
over  it,  and  this  time  she  spoke  quickly,  with  a 
little  almost  impatient  determination,  as  if  re- 
solved not  to  allow  herself  any  more  to  be  crush- 
ed and  silenced  by  herself.  "Faither,"  she  said, 
"you'll  ken  he's  come  back.  Have  you  heard 
anything  of  Rob  Glen  ?" 

"Not  a  word,  Jeanie,  no  a  word.  I  thought 
that  was  what  you  were  coming  to  tell  me." 

There  was  a  pause — Jeanie  said  nothing.  She 
turned  her  face  away,  and  made  believe  to  look 
out  at  the  dim  little  window,  while  the  cobbler, 
with  the  delicacy  of  a  prince,  turned  in  the  other 
direction  that  he  might  not  seem  to  watch  her. 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  the  lad  has  been  hame," 
he  said,  with  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice.  "  He 
will  have  many  things  to  take  him  up ;  and  his 
mother — his  mother's  a  proud  woman  ;  he  knows 


neither  you  nor  me  would  welcome  him  against 
the  will  o'  his  ain  folk." 

"  It's  no  that,  faither,"  said  Jeanie,  with  a  low 
sound  like  a  sob,  which  escaped  her  unawares. 
"It's  no  that.  The  like  of  that  is  nothing. 
Am  I  one  that  would  judge  a  hard  judgment  ? 
It's  no  that." 

"  You  would  never  mean  it,  Jeanie,  my  bon- 
nie  woman ;  but  when  the  heart  is  troubled  the 
judgment's  a'  ajee.  You  maun  possess  your  soul 
in  patience ;  maist  things  come  right  one  way  or 
anither  to  them  that  will  wait." 

Jeanie  gave  a  weary  sigh,  the  light  dying  out 
of  her  face.  She  kept  gazing  out  of  the  little 
window,  in  a  strained  attitude,  with  the  tears  un- 
seen, blinding  her  eyes.  "It  was  just  that  I 
came  for,"  she  said,  "  to  see  if  you  could  tell  me 
what  to  do.  He  has  made  great  friends,  I  ken- 
na  how,  with  our  Miss  Margaret,  and  he's  com- 
ing to  Earl's-ha' ;  maybe  I'll  have  to  open  the 
door  till  him,  maybe  I'll  have  to  show  him  up 
the  stair — to  say  Sir  till  him,  and  never  let  on 
he's  onything  to  me."  Here  a  sob  once  more 
broke  the  hurrying  current  of  Jeanie's  words. 
"What  will  I  do,  faither— what  will  I  do  ?"  she 
cried,  with  an  intense  undertone  of  pain,  which 
made  the  words  tragical  in  their  simplicity — 
smiling  Jeanie,  so  fair  and  friendly,  turning  all 
at  once  into  a  tragic  representation  (for  the  mill- 
ionth time)  of  disappointed  love,  and  that  aching 
loss  which  by  reason  of  some  lingering  possibili- 
ty of  redemption  for  it,  is  more  hard  to  bear  than 
despair. 

"My  bonnie  woman!"  said  the  cobbler;  the 
same  ring  of  pain  was  in  his  voice ;  but  the  very 
delicacy  of  his  sympathy,  and  its  acuteness,  kept 
him  silent.  He  made  another  pause  :  "Jeanie, 
my  lass,"  he  said,  "in  a'  the  trials  o'  this  life 
I've  found  that  true  that  was  said  to  them  that 
were  first  sent  out  to  preach  the  Word.  God's 
awfu'  good,  to  give  us  the  same  for  the  common 
need  as  is  for  the  divine.  '  Tak'  nae  thought 
in  that  hour  what  ye  will  say.'  That's  aye  the 
guide  as  long  as  you're  innocent  of  harm.  It 
will  be  put  into  your  mouth  what  is  best." 

Jeanie  turned  upon  him  wistfully.  "Is  that 
a'  you  have  to  say  to  me? — is  that  a',  faither? 
I  want  mair  than  that ;  will  I  take  the  thing  just 
as  it  comes,  or  will  I  haud  out  o'  the  way  ?  Will 
I  let  him  see  me,  or  will  I  no  let  him  see  me  ? 
Will  I  throw  it  on  him  to  acknowledge  me  for — 
a  friend :  or  will  I  take  it  on  me  ?  See  how 
many  things  I  have  to  ask !  It's  no  just  what  to 
say." 

"I  maun  turn  that  ower  in  my  mind,"  said 
John ;  and  there  was  a  pause.  Jeanie,  after  this 
little  outburst,  sat  still  with  her  head  turned  again 
toward  the  window,  not  looking  at  him,  conceal- 
ing the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  the  agitation  of 
her  face,  which  even  to  her  father  was  not  to  be 
betrayed.  As  for  John,  he  dropped  naturally 
upon  his  familiar  bench,  and  took  up  uncon- 
sciously a  shoe  at  which  he  had  been  working. 
The  little  knock  of  the  hammer  was  the  natural 
accompaniment  to  his  thinking.  Outside,  the 
voices  of  the  neighbors,  softened  by  the  summer 
air,  made  a  murmur  of  sound  through  which  some 
word  or  two  fell  articulate  now  and  then  through 
the  silence.  "  She  kens  my  mind ;  but  she  will 
gang  her  ain  gait,"  one  woman  said  to  another; 
and  then  there  arose  a  cry  of  ' '  Tak  care  o'  the 
bairn — it'll  fa'  and  break  its  neck,"  and  a  rush 


36 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


of  feet.  All  these  sounds  and  a  great  deal  more 
fell  into  the  silence  of  the  dim  cottage  room, 
where  nothing  but  the  little  tap  of  the  cobbler's 
hammer  disturbed  the  stillness.  Jeanie  sat  very 
still,  her  bands  clasped  in  her  lap,  the  moisture 
in  her  eyes,  turning  over  many  thoughts  in  her 
mind.  The  time  that  had  been  !  the  day  when 
they  met  in  Glasgow,  she  a  fresh  country  lass, 
half  friend,  half  servant,  in  the  house  of  her  rela- 
tion ;  he  a  student,  half-gentleman,  with  his  old 
red  gown,  the  sign  of  learning,  on  his  arm. 

How  glad  then  had  Rob  been  to  see  Jeanie ! 
And  even  when  he  began  to  have  "grand  friends," 
and  to  eschew  his  uncle's  shop,  her  smiling  looks, 
her  soft  sympathy,  had  kept  him  always  faithful. 
And  Jeanie  had  not  thought  very  much  of  the 
two  years  of  silence  since  she  came  back  to  Fife. 
They  were  both  young,  and  she  knew  that  Rob's 
mother  was  not  likely  to  smile  upon  so  humble 
a  daughter-in-law.  But  his  return  bad  roused 
all  the  past,  and  the  thought  of  meeting  him 
again  had  stirred  Jeanie's  being  to  the  depths. 
Even  this  visit  had  changed  the  aspect  of  affairs 
for  her.  Eor  it  had  not  seemed  possible  that 
Rob  could  have  entirely  neglected  her  father, 
whom  everybody  esteemed,  and  she  had  come  to 
the  Kirkton — honestly  to  ask  counsel  in  her  diffi- 
culty, yet  not  without  hope  of  hearing  something 
that  might  charm  all  difficulty  away. 

"Jeanie,"  said  her  father,  at  last,  "whatever 
we  meet  with  in  this  world  there's  aye  but  one 
path  for  right-minded  folk.  You  maun  neither 
flee  from  your  duty  nor  gang  beyond  your  duty. 
We've  nae  business  to  rin  away  from  trouble 
because  its  trouble,  but  we've  nae  call  to  put  our- 
sels  in  its  way.  If  it's  clear  that  no  person  can 
let  the  lad  in  but  you,  open  the  door  till  him, 
take  him  up  the  stair  —  do  it,  my  woman,  and 
never  think  twice  ;  but  if  it's  no  needfu',  forbear. 
And  as  for  leaving  it  on  him  to  own  you  for  a 
friend,  you  must  not  do  that;  it  would  be  un- 
truthful on  your  part,  for  I  hope  you're  ower 
weel  bred,  my  bonnie  woman,  to  pass  any  per- 
son you  ken  without  a  smile  or  a  pleasant  word. 
You  wouldna  disown  your  friend  if  he  turned 
poor,  and  why  should  he,  when  he's  turned  rich  ? 
or  I  should  say  grand  in  his  ways,  for  rich  Rob 
Glen  will  never  be.  Sae  it  will  be  but  honest 
when  you  see  the  lad  to  say  'How  is  a'  wi'  you, 
Robin,'  or  'I  hope  you're  keeping  your  health,' 
or  the  like  of  that.  Say  nothing  of  other  things. 
Let  no  lad  think  you  are  seeking  him  ;  but  nei- 
ther should  any  lad  think  you  are  feared  to  let  it 
be  seen  you  ken  him.  Na,  I'll  hear  o'  nae  con- 
cealments ;  my  Jeanie  must  be  as  clear  as  the 
running  water,  aye  true,  and  scornin'  to  deceive. 
'Ay,'  vou'll  sav,  'Miss  Margaret,  I  ken  Robert 
Glen.'" 

"Ay,"  said  the  poor  girl,  with  a  wistful  echo, 
"I  ken  Robert  Glen!"  she  shook  her  head,  and 
the  tears  with  which  her  eyes  were  full,  brimmed 
over.  "Ay,  that  do  I,  faither;  I  wish  I  had 
never  kent  him,  I  wish  I  had  never  thought  so 
weel  of  him.  Eh,  but  it's  strange — awful  strange 
— to  think  ane  ye  ken  can  deceive!  Them  ye 
dinna  ken  are  different.  But  to  say  a  thing  and 
no  to  mean  it,  faither — to  give  a  promise  and 
forget — to  mak'  a  vow  before  the  Lord  and  think 
nae  mair  o't !     Can  such  things  be  ?" 

"Such  things  have  been,  Jeanie.  I'm  like 
you,  I  cannot  believe  in  them;  but  they  have 
been.      And  a'  that  you  and  me  can  do  is  to 


bear  whatever  comes,  and  be  aye  faithful  and 
steady,  and  wait  till  you  see  the  end." 

"It's  sae  lang  waiting,"  said  Jeanie,  with  a 
smile  in  her  wet  eyes,  as  she  rose  from  her  seat ; 
"and  it's  no  as  if  it  would  be  ony  satisfaction 
to  see  them  punished  for't  that  do  amiss.  But 
fareyewell,  faither ;  I'm  muckle  the  better  o' 
your  good  advice.  Thinkna  of  me,  I'll  win 
through.  It's  no  like  a  thing  that  would  make 
a  person  useless,  no  fit  to  do  their  day's  work  or 
get  their  living.     I'll  win  through." 

And  the  tears  were  all  clear  out  of  her  brown 
eyes,  and  her  smile  ready,  to  meet  the  world  with, 
when  she  came  out  of  the  dimness  of  the  cottage 
door.  John  Robertson  stood  there  watching  her 
as  she  went  along  by  the  neighbors'  doors,  and 
it  was  more  from  the  shadow  on  his  face  than 
on  hers  that  the  women  divined  some  trouble  in 
the  family. 

"  Is't  about  Willie  ?"  they  said.  "  You  should 
speak  to  your  faither,  Jeanie,  a  sensible  lass  like 
you.  Though  he's  listed,  what's  to  hinder  but 
he  may  do  real  well  yet  ?" 

"  I  had  an  uncle,  as  decent  a  man  as  ever  was, 
that  listed  in  his  young  days,"  said  another. 

Jeanie  received  theee  consolations  with  her 
habitual  smile. 

"I  think  that  too,"  she  said.  "There  wouldna 
be  so  muckle  about  good  sodgers  in  the  Bible  if 
they  were  all  bad  men  that  listed ;  and  so  I've 
tellt  him." 

So  close  to  her  heart  did  she  wear  it,  that  no- 
body suspected  Jeanie's  own  private  cincture  of 
care. 


CHAPTER  X. 


"Papa  has  no  objections,"  said  Margaret, 
demurely  ;  "  he  says  if  you  will  come  he  will  be 
— glad  to  see  you."  This,  however,  being  an 
addition  made  on  the  spot,  she  faltered  over  it, 
not  quite  knowing  how  it  was  to  be  supported  by- 
fact;  and  she  added,  timidly,  "Will  yon  really 
take  all  that  trouble  for  me  ?  Perhaps  I  am  stu- 
pid. I  think  very  likely  I  am  stupid  ;  for  I  can- 
not draw  any  tiring  —  I  have  been  trying,"  she 
said,  with  a  great  blush. 

"  You  have  been  trying !  I  should  like  to  see 
what  you  have  done.  If  you  could  have  seen 
my  stumbles  and  blunders,  you  would  have  had 
no  respect  for  me  at  all,"  said  Rob  Glen  ;  "and 
how  I  dare  now  to  take  upon  me  to  teach  you, 
who  probably  know  more  than  I  do — " 

"Oh,  I  know  nothing  at  all — just  nothing  at 
all!  What  shall  we  do,  Mr.— Glen?  I  found 
a  book  and  some  pencils.  I  think  there  is  every- 
thing in  the  world  up  in  the  old  presses  in  the 
high  room.  What  shall  we  do  first  ?  Might  I 
begin  with — the  house?  or  a  tree?" 

"There  are  some  preliminary  exercises,"  said 
Rob,  "  that  are  thought  necessary;  very  simple 
— drawing  straight  lines,  and  curves,  and  cor- 
ners. I  am  sure  you  will  do  thein  all — by  in- 
stinct." 

"Oh!"  said  Margaret  again.  Her  counte- 
nance fell.  "But  any  child  would  draw  straight 
lines  ;  a  straight  line  is  nothing — it  is  just  that," 
she  added,  tracing  a  line  in  the  soft,  brown,  up- 
turned earth  of  the  ploughed  field  through  which 
the  path  ran.  But  when  Margaret  looked  at  it, 
she  reddened  and  furtively  attempted  another. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


37 


She  had  met  Roh  by  the  burn  as  before,  and  he 
was  walking  back  with  her  toward  home.  The 
sky  was  overcast  and  lowering.  The  brief  in- 
terval of  lovely  weather  had  for  the  moment 
come  to  an  end.  Clouds  were  gathering  on  all 
the  hills,  and  the  winds  sighed  about  the  hedges, 
heavy  with  coming  rain. 

"The  furrow  is  straight," said  Rob,  "straight 
as  an  arrow ;  that  is  the  ploughman's  pride ;  but 
it  is  not  so  easy  to  draw  a  straight  line  as  you 
think.  I  have  known  people  who  could  never 
do  it." 

Margaret  was  crimson  with  the  failure. 

"It's  me  that  am  stupid!"  she  cried,  in  sud- 
den rage  with  herself.  "How  do  the  plough- 
men learn  to  do  it?  There's  nobody  to  show 
them  the  way." 

"It's  their  pride;  and  it's  their  trade,  Miss 
Margaret. " 

"Oh!"  cried  Margaret,  stamping  her  foot, 
"  it  shall  be  my  pride,  and  my  trade  too.  I  will 
begin  to-night  when  I  go  home.  I  will  never, 
never  rest  till  I  can  do  it." 

"But  it  will  never  be  your  trade — nor  mine," 
said  Rob  Glen,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  wish  I  knew 
what  mine  was.  You  are  rich  and  a  lady  ;  but 
I  am  a  poor  man,  that  must  work  for  my  living, 
and  I  don't  know  what  I  must  do." 

"If  I  were  you — "  said  Margaret.  As  she 
spoke  she  blushed,  but  only  because  she  always 
did,  not  with  any  special  signification  in  it.  Rob, 
however,  did  not  understand  this.  He  saw  the 
glow  of  color,  the  sudden  brightness,  the  droop 
and  sensitive  fall  of  the  soft  eyelids :  all  things 
telling  of  emotion,  he  thought,  as  though  the 
supposition,  "if  I  were  you,"  had  thrilled  the 
girl's  being;  and  his  own  heart  gave  a  leap. 
Did  she — was  it  possible — feel  like  this  for  him 
already  ?  "  If  I  were  you,"  said  Margaret,  mus- 
ingly, "I  would  be  a  farmer;  but  no,  not,  per- 
haps, if  I  were  you.  You  could  do  other  things  ; 
you  could  go  into  the  world,  you  could  do  some- 
thing great — -" 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "I? 
No,  there  is  nothing  great,  nothing  grand  about 
me." 

"How  can  yon  judge  yourself ?"  said  Mar- 
garet, with  fine  and  flattering  scorn  ;  "it  is  oth- 
er people  that  can  judge  best.  No;  if  I  were 
you,  I  would  go  away  and  paint  and  write,  and 
be  a  great  man  ;  aud  then  you  could  come  home 
and  visit  the  place  where  you  used  to  live,  and 
see  your  old  friends ;  but  just  now  I  would  go 
away.  I  would  go  to  London,  into  the  world. 
I  would  let  people  see  what  I  could  do — only 
first  I  would  learn  Margaret  Leslie  to  draw," 
she  said,  with  a  little  laugh;  "that  would  be 
kind — for  she  never  could  find  any  one  else  to 
learn  her  about  here." 

"That  would  be  the  finest  office  of  all,"  said 
Rob,  inspired.  "To  go  to  London,  every  ad- 
venturer can  do  that;  but  to  teach  Miss  Leslie 
is  for  few.  I  would  rather  have  that  privilege 
than — " 

"  Oh,"  cried  Margaret,  careless  of  the  compli- 
ment, "and  will  you  paint  a  picture,  a  great 
picture  of  Earl's-hall  ?  I  know  we  are  poor. 
We  are  not  great  people,  like  the  Bruces,  or  the 
Lindsays,  or  Sir  Claude.  We  have  not  grand 
horses  and  carriages,  and  men  in  livery.  That 
is  just  why  I  should  like  poor  old  mossy  Earl's- 
hall  to  be  in  a  bonnie  picture,  to  make  folks  ask 


where  is  that?  what  beautiful  old  house  is  that? 
You  see,"  she  added,  laughing,  "it  is  not  just  a 
beautiful  house.  It  is  not  what  you  would  call 
comfortable,  perhaps.  Jean  and  Grace,  that  is, 
my  old  sisters,  Miss  Leslie  and  Mrs.  Bellingham, 
are  never  tired  of  abusing  it.  It  is  quite  true 
that  we  have  not  got  a  thing  that  can  be  called 
a  drawing-room — not  a  real  drawing-room,"  she 
said,  shaking  her  head.  "  You  will  wonder,  but 
it  is  true.  There  is  the  long  room,  and  there  is 
the  high  room ;  the  one  papa  sits  in ;  and  we 
dine  in  it,  and  he  lives  in  it ;  and  the  other  is 
empty,  and  full  of — oh,  everything  you  can  think 
of!  But  there  is  no  drawing-room,  only  the 
little  West  Chamber,  such  a  little  place.  They 
say  it  was  Lady  Jean's  room,  and  Lady  Jean — 
is  the  only  ghost  we  have." 

"Is  she  the  lady  with  the  silk  gown ?" 

"She  is  the  Rustle,"  said  Margaret,  not  dis- 
posed to  treat  the  family  ghost  lightly.  "You 
never  see  her,  you  only  hear  as  if  a  grand  lady 
walked  by  with  her  train  sweeping.  I  think 
there  is  that  very  train  in  the  old  aurnrie,  as  Bell 
calls  it.  But  what  I  was  saying  was,  because  it 
is  so  old,  Mr.  Glen,  because  it's  not  grand,  nor 
even  comfortable  —  oh,  I  would  like  a  bonnie 
picture,  a  real  beautiful  picture,  of  poor  old 
Earl's-hall!" 

"You  must  make  one,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  if  I  can  ;  but  you  must  make  one  first. 
You  must  take  a  big  sheet  of  paper  and  draw  it 
all  out ;  I  will  show  you  the  best  view ;  and  you 
must  paint  in  every  bit  of  it,  the  tower  and  the 
view  from  the  tower  (but,  perhaps,  after  all,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  put  in  the  view,  you  must 
make  another  picture  of  that) ;  and  you  must 
put  it  up  in  a  beautiful  frame,  and  write  upon  it 
'  Old  Earl's-hall.'  Oh!  that  will  make  Jean  and 
Grace  jump.  They  will  say,  'Who  can  have 
done  it  ?  Earl's-hall — papa's  place — that  horrid, 
tumble  -  down  old  Scotch  crow's-nest ! '  "  Mar- 
garet was  a  mimic,  without  knowing  it,  and 
mouthed  this  forth  with  the  warmest  relish  in 
Mrs.  Bellingham's  very  tone.  But  her  own  act- 
ing of  her  elder  sister  called  forth  lively  indigna- 
tion in  the  girl's  warlike  soul.  "That's  what 
they  dare  to  call  it,"  she  cried,  stopping  to  stamp 
her  foot.  "My  Earl's-hall!  But  this  is  what 
you  will  do,  Mr.  Glen,  if  you  want  to  please  me. 
You  will  make  a  picture — not  a  common  thing 
— a  beautiful  picture,  that  everybody  will  talk 
about ;  and  send  it  to  the  biggest  place  in  Lon- 
don, in  the  season  when  everybody  is  there,  and 
hang  it  up  for  everybody  to  see." 

"To  please  you,"  said  Rob,  "I  would  do  a 
great  deal — I  would  do — "  he  went  on,  sinking 
his  voice,  "as  much  as  man  can  do."  Marga- 
ret scarcely  turned  to  him  as  he  began  to  speak  ; 
but  when  his  voice  sank  lower,  her  attention  was 
caught.  She  raised  her  head  with  a  little  sur- 
prise, and,  catching  his  eye,  blushed  :  and  paused, 
arrested,  and  wondering — What  did  he  mean  ? 
Her  frank  girlish  astonishment  was  very  discom- 
posing ;  he  himself  blushed  and  faltered,  and 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  his  pretty  speech — "as 
much  as  man  can  do!"  but  it  was  not  so  very 
much  she  asked  him  for.  It  seemed  necessary 
to  Margaret  to  say  this  to  make  things  clear. 

"Oh  no,"  she  said,  with  a  shake  of  her  head, 
"not  that;  though  there  are  many  men  could 
not  do  what  I  want  you  to  do,  Mr.  Glen  ;  but 
you  can  do  it  easy — quite  easy.     What  will  I 


38 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


want  to  begin  with?"  she  added,  changing  the 
subject  abruptl}',  and  with  true  Scotch  disregard 
for  the  difference  between  shall  and  will.  This 
gentle  indifference  to  his  protestations  chilled 
Rob  a  little.  She  had  been  so  sweet  and  gra- 
cious to  him  that  her  demand  upon  his  services 
only  as  something  that  he  could  do  "easy,  quite 
easy,"  brought  him  to  a  sudden  stand-still.  He 
did  not  know  how  to  reply. 

"It  may  not  be  much,"  he  said;  "  but  it  will 
be  all  I  can  do.  Miss  Margaret,  I  will  begin 
to-morrow,  to  show  that  I  want  to  please  you ; 
and  if  it  is  not  a  good  drawing  it  will  not  be  my 
fault,  nor  for  want  of  trying." 

"I  am  sure  it  will  be  beautiful,"  she  said. 
"  Oh,  I  would  like  to  see  Grace  and  Jean  jump 
when  they  see  all  the  people,  all  the  fine  folk  in 
London,  running  to  look  at  old  Earl's-hall." 

Alas !  Rob  knew  the  great  London  people 
were  not  very  likely  to  run  in  crowds  to  any  per- 
formance of  his.  But  the  idea  was  delightful, 
however  unlikely.  He  suffered  himself  to  laugh, 
too,  though  he  shook  his  head.  He  had  never 
seen  any  one  so  sweet,  so  enchanting,  or  felt  so 
near  to  being  transported  and  carried  out  of 
himself  as  by  this  gracious  little  lady.  Never 
before,  he  thought,  had  he  known  what  such  en- 
thusiasm was.  He  had  not  forgotten  Jeanie, 
and  perhaps  others.  He  was  a  connoisseur  in- 
deed in  these  soft  emotions,  the  excitement  of 
love-making,  the  pleasure  of  pursuit,  the  flatter- 
ing consciousness  of  being  admired  and  loved. 
All  these  sensations  he  knew  well  enough,  not  in 
any  guilty  way,  except  in  so  far  as  multiplicity 
of  affections  implied  guilt ;  but  this  was  not  only 
something  new,  it  was  something  altogether  nov- 
el. Margaret  had  much  of  the  great  lady  in 
her,  simple  as  she  was.  She  was  not  like  his 
previous  loves.  Even  in  the  little  foolishnesses 
she  said,  there- were  signs  of  a  wider  world,  of 
something  more  than  even  Rob  himself,  hereto- 
fore the  oracle  of  his  friends  and  sweethearts, 
was  acquainted  with.  All  the  Fife  gentry,  all 
the  rural  aristocracy,  all  the  great  world,  so  fine 
at  a  distance,  seemed  to  glide  toward  him  half 
caressingly,  half  mocking,  in  that  girlish  figure. 
It  gave  him  a  new  sensation.  He  was  dazzled, 
enchanted,  drawn  out  of  himself.  Who  could 
tell  what  this  new  influence  might  effect  in  a 
young  man  avowedly  "clever,"  whose  abilities 
everybody  had  acknowledged?  Love  had  in- 
spired men  who  had  no  such  eminence  to  start 
from.  Love  had  made  the  blacksmith  a  paint- 
er ;  why  should  it  not  make  Rob  Glen  a  painter. 
To  please  her !  she  had  put  it  on  that  ground. 
She  was  not  like  any  of  those  he  had  trifled  with 
before.  Love  had  done  wonders  in  all  ages,  and 
why  not  now — if  perhaps  this  new  sentiment,  so 
mingled,  yet  so  strange,  so  dazzling,  so  bewilder- 
ing, might  be  Love. 

"If  that  is  what  will  please  you  best,  "he  said, 
faltering  a  little  with  something  which  felt  to 
him  like  real  emotion,  "then  it  shall  be  done, 
Miss  Margaret,  you  must  let  me  say  so,  if  man 
can  do  it — I  mean,  if  my  skill  can  do  it.  But 
perhaps  the  two  things  can  be  done  together.  I 
will  begin  to  -  morrow,  and  you  can  watch  me. 
I  will  tell  you  all  I  know,  and  you  will  see  how 
I  do  it;  that  will  be  better,  perhaps,  than  the 
straight  lines." 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal  better,"  cried  Margaret, 
fervently.      "Come  early;   be  sure  you  come 


early,  Mr.  Glen.  I  will  be  ready.  I  will  be  wait- 
ing. I  will  let  you  see  the  best  place  for  the 
view.  And  perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  the 
house  ?  And  then  I  will  go  with  you,  and  stand 
by  you,  and  hold  your  colors  and  your  pencils, 
and  watch  the  way  you  do  it.  Oh !"  cried  Mar- 
garet, putting  her  hands  together,  and  breathing 
forth  an  earnest  invocation  of  all  the  good  spirits 
of  the  elements.  "Oh,  that  it  may  only  be  a 
fine  day !" 

This  very  prayer  brought  home  to  them  both 
the  too  plaiu  suggestion  conveyed  by  these  gath- 
ering clouds,  that  it  might  not  be  a  fine  day,  and 
chilled  their  very  souls  within  them.  If  it  should 
rain!  "I  think,"  said  Rob,  but  timidly,  "that 
it  is  looking  better.  The  sky  is  cloudy  here,  but 
it's  clear  in  the  quarter  where  the  wind  is,  and  a 
north  wind  is  seldom  rainy.  I  think  it  will  be  a 
fine  day." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Mr.  Glen?"  Margaret 
looked  up  at  him  very  wistfully,  and  then  at  the 
sky.  Then  she  cleared  up  all  at  once,  though 
the  sky  did  not.  "Any  way,"  she  said,  "you 
will  come  ?  If  it's  wet,  I  could  let  you  see  the 
house.  I  think  you  would  like  to  see  the  house. 
And  bring  a  great  many  pictures  and  sketch- 
books to  let  papa  see.  Even  if  it  is  wet,  it  will 
be  not  so  very  bad,"  said  Margaret,  throwing  a 
smile  suddenly  upon  him  like  a  light  from  a 
lantern.  But  then  she  recollected  herself,  and 
blushed  wildly  and  grew  serious — for  he  was  a 
man  and  a  stranger.  Was  he  a  stranger  ?  No, 
she  said  to  herself — and  not  even  a  gentleman, 
only  Robert  Glen.  What  fury  would  have  been 
in  poor  Rob's  heart  had  he  known  this  last 
consoling  sentiment  which  kept  Margaret  from 
feeling  herself  overbold.  But  she  did  not  mean 
all  the  arrogance  and  impertinence  that  appear- 
ed in  the  thought.  Not  all  of  it,  nor  half  of  it. 
She  meant  no  impertinence  at  all.  She  parted 
with  him  where  the  by-way  came  out  upon  the 
road,  and  went  along  the  flowery  hedge-row  very 
demurely,  thinking  very  kindly  of  Rob  Glen. 
Margaret  had  not  known  before  what  it  was  to 
have  a  companion  of  her  own  age.  Youth  loves 
youth,  all  the  more  if  youth  has  little  experience 
of  anything  but  age.  Rob  was  a  great  deal 
more  amusing  (to  Margaret)  than  Bell.  This, 
perhaps,  was  a  mistake,  for  Rob  was  not  nearly 
so  original  as  Bell  was,  nor  so  well  worth  know- 
ing. But  Margaret  did  not  know  that  Bell 
was  original.  She  knew  all  her  stories,  and  was 
not  too  anxious  to  call  forth  that  homely  phi- 
losophy which  so  often  (or  so  the  girl  thought) 
was  subtly  adapted  for  her  own  reproof  and  dis- 
couragement. Rob  was  a  novelty  to  Margaret, 
even  more  than  she  was  to  him.  The  prospect 
of  his  visit  made  her  feel  that  even  a  wet  day 
would  be  endurable.  He  amused  her  more  than 
any  one  had  ever  done  before.  And  then  she 
comforted  herself  that  she  could  not  be  thought 
forward,  or  too  bold,  because,  after  all,  he  was 
not  a  gentleman  or  a  stranger,  but  only  Rob 
Glen! 

Jeanie  had  got  in  before  her  young  mistress, 
before  the  clouds  had  risen  that  threatened  to 
cover  the  sky.  What  different  thoughts  were 
hers  on  the  same  subject !  She  listened  to  Mar- 
garet's voice  talking  to  Bell,  as  she  moved  about 
putting  everything  in  order  for  the  night.  What 
a  sweet  voice  it  was,  Jeanie  thought,  speaking  so 
softly,  such  bonnie  English !  no  like  us  common 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATII. 


39 


folk.  The  tones  which  were  so  wofully  Fifeish 
to  Sir  Ludovic,  and  which  made  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham  cry,  seemed  the  very  acme  of  refinement  to 
Jeanie;  and  when  a  lady  spoke  to  him  so  sweet- 
ly, looked  at  him  with  such  lovely  een,  would  it 
be  wonderful  if  Rob  forgot  ?  And  he  was  a  gen- 
tleman himself,  for  what  was  it  that  made  a  gen- 
tleman but  just  education?  and  nobody  could 
say  but  he  bad  that.  It  gave  Jeanie's  heart  a 
pang,  but  she  was  too  just  and  candid  not  to  see 
all  this.  How  could  he  think  of  Jeanie  Robert- 
son with  Miss  Margaret  for  a  friend?  Jeanie 
went  away  into  the  depths  of  those  low  vaulted 
rooms,  which  formed  the  under-story  of  Earl's- 
hall  in  order  to  escape  the  sweet  sound  of  Mar- 
garet's voice.  Here  there  was  a  maze  of  rooms 
and  cellars  one  within  another,  among  which 
you  might  escape  very  easily  from  sounds  with- 
out. You  might  escape,  even,  which  was  more 
difficult,  from  pursuers,  even  from  persecutors,  as 
had  been  known,  it  was  said,  in  the  old  times ; 
but,  ah  me,  in  the  very  deepest  of  recesses,  how 
could  poor  Jeanie  escape  from  herself? 

Next  day,  next  morning,  Margaret  looked  at 
the  sky  long  before  any  one  was  up  at  EaiTs- 
hall.  She  looked  out  over  the  tree-tops  to  the 
sea,  which  swept  round  in  a  semicircle  as  far  as 
the  eye  carried.  From  the  Eden  to  the  Tay  the 
silvery  line  swept  the  horizon  one  dazzling  curve 
of  light.  St.  Andrews  lay  on  her  right  hand, 
with  all  its  towers  and  its  ruins,  and  the  glim- 
mer of  water  beyond  the  headland  on  which  it 
stood.  Not  a  trace  of  smoke  or  human  breath 
eame  from  the  brown  old  city,  which  stood  there 
silent,  with  a  homely  majesty,  in  the  profound 
stillness  of  the  early  morning.  Not  a  human 
ereature  was  awake  between  Margaret's  window 
and  the  old  town  of  St.  Rule,  except,  indeed,  in 
the  fishing-boat,  with  its  brown  sail,  out  upon 
the  dazzling  line  of  sea,  which  was  bearing  slow- 
ly toward  the  bar  after  a  night's  fishing,  with 
scarce  wind  enough  to  move  it.  The  birds  were 
all  up  and  awake,  but  nothing  else  —  not  the 
ploughmen  and  laborers,  so  early  was  it,  the  sun 
still  low  over  the  sea.  The  girl's  heart  leaped 
at  the  beauty  of  the  sight,  but  sank  again  so  far 
as  her  own  interests  were  concerned.  Is  it  not 
a  bad  sign  when  it  is  so  blight  so  early  ?  And 
the  light  which  thus  lavished  itself  upon  the 
world  with  none  to  see  it,  had  a  certain  pale 
gleam  which  frightened  the  young  observer,  too 
much  used  to  atmospheric  effects  not  to  know 
something  about  them.  "Oh,  what  a  lovely 
morning!"  she  said  to  herself;  but  even  san- 
guine Margaret  shook  her  head,  thinking  it 
doubtful  if  the  day  would  be  as  fine.  And  oh, 
if  she  had  but  learned,  if  she  could  but  make  a 
picture  of  that  old  town  upon  the  headland,  ly- 
ing voiceless  in  the  morning  light,  with  the  great 
silver  bow  of  the  sea  flashing  round  the  vast 
horizon,  all  round  to  the  vague  shores  of  Forfar- 
shire, and  the  dazzling  breadth  of  Tay !  If  Rob 
were  but  here  with  his  pencil  and  his  colors! 
Margaret  was  in  the  enthusiast  stage  of  ignorant 
faith,  believing  all  things  possible  to  Rob.  He 
was  to  her  the  young  Raphael,  the  Michael  An- 
gelo  of  the  future.  Or  perhaps  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  say  (but  Margaret  at  that  stage  knew  no 
difference)  the  Claude,  the  Turner  of  the  new 
generation.  She  seemed  to  see  all  that  scene 
transferred  to  canvas — nay,  not  even  to  canvas, 
to  paper  (but  she  knew  no  difference),  dazzling, 


shining  with  early  dew  and  freshness,  with  the 
chirp  of  the  birds  in  it,  and  the  silence  of  nature, 
fixed  there  never  to  die.  Poor  Rob  and  his  box 
of  water-colors !  He  would  himself,  fortunately, 
at  least  when  unintoxicated  by  the  firmness  of  her 
faith  in  him,  have  had  sense  enough  not  to  try. 

But  when  the  common  world  was  awake,  and 
when  the  working  day  had  begun,  the  brilliancy 
did  not  last.  First,  mists  crept  over  the  sun, 
then  the  silver  bow  of  the  sea  paled  and  whitened, 
the  old  brown  tower  turned  gray,  the  blue  sky 
disappeared.  By  eight  o'clock  everything  was 
the  hue  of  mud — sky,  sea,  and  land  together,  with 
blurred  shades  of  green  and  brown  upon  the  last, 
but  not  an  honest  color;  and  lastly,  it  began  to 
rain,  softly,  slowly,  persistently,  at  first  scarcely 
audible  upon  the  leaves,  then  pattering  with  con- 
tinuous sound,  which  filled  all  the  air.  Nothing 
but  rain  !  ,  The  very  air  was  rain,  not  disagreea- 
ble, not  cruel,  but  constant. 

"Well,  it's  aye  good  for  the  turnips,"  said 
Bell ;  "  and  I'll  get  my  stocking  done  that's  been 
so  long  in  hand." 

"And  what  do  you  say  till  the  hay?"  asked 
John,  who  was  a  pessimist,  "  and  a'  the  low  land 
about  Eden  in  flood  already." 

But  he,  too,  comforted  himself  by  getting  out 
the  oldest  plate,  and  giving  it  "a  guid  clean," 
which  was  an  occupation  he  kept  for  this  kind  of 
weather;  it  is  easier  to  endure  a  wet  day  when 
you  are  old  than  when  you  are  young.  Jeanie 
was  less  well  off.  When  her  work  was  done,  she 
was  not  happy  enough  to  take  out  the  stocking, 
with  which  every  woman  in  Fife  is  provided 
against  a  moment's  leisure.  To  sit  down  tran- 
quilly and  turn  the  heel  was  not  in  Jeanie's  pow- 
er. She  went  up  to  her  little  turret  room,  and 
began  to  turn  over  her  little  possessions,  and  there 
found  a  keepsake  or  two  from  Rob,  poor  Jeanie  ! 
which  filled  her  already  dewy  eyes  with  tears. 
But  even  that  was  an  occupation,  and  Margaret, 
who  had  no  occupation,  was  worst  off  of  all. 
She  flitted  all  over  the  house,  up-stairs  and  down, 
sometimes  disturbing  Sir  Ludovic  with  restless 
movements,  taking  down  books  and  putting  them 
up  again,  then  flying  down-stairs  to  warm  her 
hands  by  the  fire  and  tease  the  long-suffering 
Bell. 

"Eh,  Miss  Margaret,  if  you  would  but  try 
something  to  do !  To  see  you  aye  coming  and 
going  makes  my  head  gang  round  and  round." 

"How  can  you  sit  there  with  your  stocking?" 
cried  Margai-et,  "as  if  you  were  a  part  of  the 
day?  Will  nothing  happen — will  nothing  ever 
happen  ?  Will  it  go  on  till  dinner-time,  and  then 
till  bed-time,  and  nobody  come?" 

"  Wha  would  come,  or  what  should  happen  ?" 
said  Bell,  startled.  It  was  a  new  idea  to  her  that 
succor  should  come  from  without.  "I  ken  no- 
body that  is  such  a  fool  as  to  come  out  of  their 
ain  house  on  such  a  day.  But,  bless  me!  what 
is  that  ?"  And  lo !  in  a  moment  as  they  listened, 
making  Bell  wonder  and  Margaret  clap  her  hands, 
there  came — blessed  sound — a  knock  at  the  door ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 


"Papa,"  cried  Margaret,  rushing  in,  her  face 
bright  with  excitement  and  pleasure.  Some  one 
stood  behind  her  on  a  lower  step  of  the  winding 


40 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


stair.  They  filled  up  that  narrow  ascent  alto- 
gether with  their  youth  and  the  importance  of 
their  presence,  and  of  all  they  had  to  say  and  do. 
She  went  in  lightly,  her  eyes  dancing,  her  light 
figure  full  of  eagerness,  a  large  portfolio  in  her 
hands.  She  had  no  doubt  either  that  this  ad- 
vent of  something  to  break  the  tedium  would  be 
agreeable  to  her  father  too,  or  that  he  must  feel, 
as  she  did,  the  influence  of  the  falling  rain  and 
heaviness  of  the  monotonous  sky.  She  went  in, 
taking  him  amusement,  variety,  all  that  she  would 
herself  have  rejoiced  to  see  coming.  It  was  the 
best  of  introductions,  she  felt,  for  the  new-comer. 
As  for  Rob,  he  stood  behind,  ready  to  follow, 
with  a  little  tremor  in  him,  wondering  how  he 
would  be  received.  He  had  never  been  in  the 
company  of  any  one  so  dignified  as  Sir  Ludovic 
before,  never  had  addressed  a  titled  personage, 
upon  terms  of  anything  like  equality,;  and  this 
of  itself  was  enough  to  make  him  nervous. 

It  seemed  like  an  introduction  into  a  new 
world  to  Rob.  Then  Sir  Ludovic  had  the  name 
of  being  a  great  scholar,  a  man  of  learning  as 
well  as  a  man  of  rank  and  position,  and  in 
every  way  above  the  range  of  a  farmer's  son ; 
and,  last  of  all,  he  was  Margaret's  father,  and 
much  might  depend  on  the  way  in  which  he  al- 
lowed the  new  visitor,  who  felt  himself  out  of 
place  at  EaiTs-hall,  even  while  he  felt  himself 
"as  good  as"  any  one  whom  he  might  meet 
anywhere.  Altogether  it  was  an  exciting  mo- 
ment. Rob  was  moved  by  the  joyful  welcome 
Margaret  had  given  him,  perhaps,  to  a  higher 
idea  of  himself  than  he  had  ever  entertained  be- 
fore. He  had  felt  the  flattery  of  it  penetrate  to 
his  very  heart.  She  had  rushed  out  of  the  lower 
room,  where  she  had  been  with  Bell,  almost 
meeting  him  at,  the  door.  She  had  spoken  be- 
fore he  had  time  to  say  anything,  exclaiming 
how  glad  she  was  to  see  him. 

Rob  had  forgotten  the  rain.  Notwithstand- 
ing that  his  mother  had  brought  forth  that  very 
argument,  bidding  him  "Go  away  with  you; 
they  would  be  glad  to  see  you  the  day,  if  they 
never  let  you  in  again;"  yet  in  the  pleasure  of 
being  so  received  he  had  forgotten  the  very 
chiefest  cause  of  his  welcome.  The  brightened 
looks,  the  eager  greeting,  were  too  pleasant,  too 
flattering,  to  be  taken  unmoved.  It  was  not 
possible  to  believe  that,  it  was  not  for  himself; 
and  all  these  tilings  had  worked  upon  Rob  to  an 
extent  he  was  scarcely  aware  of.  He  who  had 
at  first  approached  the  young  lady  so  respectful- 
ly, and  with  so  little  ulterior  motive,  and  who 
had  been  half  shocked,  half  amused  at  his  moth- 
er's treatment  of  the  renewed  acquaintance  be- 
tween them,  came  almost  with  a  bound  to  his 
mother's  conclusion  when  he  saw  the  brightness 
of  Margaret's  eyes  this  particular  rainy  morning. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  was  glad  to  see 
him ;  he  was  here  by  her  own  invitation.  She 
was  eager  to  associate  him  with  herself  in  the 
interests  of  the  old  house,  and  anxious  to  accept 
the  lessons  he  offered,  and  to  "  put  herself  under 
an  obligation  "  to  him  in  this  way. 

Margaret,  entirely  unacquainted  with  money 
and  the  value  of  things,  never  thought  of  any 
"obligation;"  but  he  did,  who  was  accustomed 
to  consider  the  price  of  lessons,  and  to  whom 
money's-worth  would  never  be  without  impor- 
tance. He  was  very  willing,  very  anxious  to 
confer  this  favor ;   but  he  could  not  help  attach- 


ing a  certain  significance  to  her  acceptance  of  it, 
a  significance  entirely  unjustified  by  any  idea  in 
Margaret's  innocent  mind.  She  was  willing  to 
accept  the  obligation ;  therefore,  was  it  not  at 
least  permissible  to  think  that  some  other  way 
of  clearing  it,  making  up  to  him  for  his  kindness, 
was  in  her  mind  ?  If  she  had  any  dawning 
thought  of  bestowing  all  she  had  upon  him,  of 
giving  him  herself  and  her  money,  her  heiress- 
ship  altogether,  that  would  indeed  be  a  very 
good  reason  for  laying  herself  "under  an  obli- 
gation "  to  him.  Thus  Rob  had  come  to  think 
with  a  beating  heart  that  there  was  meaning  in 
the  innocent  girl's  happy  reception  of  him,  in 
her  eagerness  to  introduce  him  to  her  father,  and 
warm  desire  that  he  should  please  him.  And 
thus  the  moment  was  very  serious  to  him,  like 
nothing  lie  had  experienced  before. 

But  Sir  Ludovic  did  not  stir.  He  had  drop- 
ped asleep  again,  and  did  not  wake  even  at  his 
daughter's  call.  As  he  lay  back  in  his  chair, 
with  his  old  ivory  hands  spread  out  upon  its 
arms,  and  his  white  hair  falling  back,  Rob  thought 
lie  had  never  seen  a  more  venerable  appearance. 
If  it  were  possible  that  things  should  so  come 
about  as  that  he  should  be  familiar  here,  one  of 
themselves,  perhaps,  calling  this  old  man  father 
(such  things  had  been — and  his  mother  thought 
were  likely  to  be  again — and  what  else  could  be 
the  meaning  in  Margaret's  eyes?),  Rob  felt  that 
he  would  have  reason  to  be  proud.  Even  the 
very  idea  swelled  his  heart.  The  room,  upon 
the  threshold  of  which  he  stood,  was  unlike  any- 
thing else  he  had  seen  before.  He  had  been  in 
wealthy  Glasgow  houses  where  luxury  abound- 
ed— he  had  seen  dwellings  much  more  wealthy, 
costly,  and  splendid  than  Earl's-hall ;  but  there 
was  something  in  the  aspect  of  the  place,  its 
gray  noble  stateliness  outside,  so  poor,  yet  so 
dignified,  its  antique  old-world  grace  within,  the 
walls  lined  with  books,  the  air  of  old  establish- 
ment and  duration  that  was  in  everything,  which 
exercised  the  strongest  influence  over  him.  It 
was  like  a  scene  in  a  fairy  tale — an  old  magician, 
and  his  fresh,  fair  young  daughter,  so  liberal,  so 
gentle,  receiving  him  like  a  princess,  opening  wide 
the  doors  to  him.  He  stood,  as  we  have  said,  in 
a  kind  of  enchantment.  He  was  on  the  borders 
— was  it  of  Paradise  ?  certainly  of  some  unknown 
country,  more  noble,  more  stately  than  anything 
he  had  known  before. 

This  train  of  thought  was  interrupted  by  Mar- 
garet, who  came  back  to  him  walking  softly, 
and  putting  her  finger  to  her  lips.  "Papa  has 
fallen  asleep  again,"  she  said,  half  annoyed,  half 
anxious,  and  she  pushed  open  softly  the  door  of 
the  little  west  chamber.  "Here,  come  here!" 
she  said,  and  went  in  before  him,  pointing  to  a 
chair  and  clearing  Lady  Jean's  work  and  other 
obstacles  with  her  own  hands  from  the  table. 
"  Now  let  me  see  them,"  she  cried.  How  eager 
she  was,  how  full  of  interest  and  admiration ! 
She  spread  the  portfolio  open  before  him  which 
she  had  herself  snatched  from  his  hands  and 
carried  to  her  father.  In  it  was  the  drawing  of 
the  Kirkton  which  his  mother  had  suggested  he 
should  give  "in  a  present  "to  Margaret.  She 
was  not  aware  yet  of  this  happiness ;  but  she 
was  as  simple  as  Mrs.  Glen  in  ready  admiration, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  nothing  ever  was  more 
beautiful.  "Oh!"  she  cried,  struck  dumb  with 
wonder  and  delight.     She  said  nothing  more  at 


THE  PRIMROSE  RATH. 


41 


first,  then  suddenly  burst  into  ecstasy.  "  Did 
you  ever  see  it  from  the  tower,  Mr.  Glen  ?  Oh, 
it  does  not  look  like  that,  you  arc  so  high  above 
it.  But  I  know  that  look  just  as  well ;  that 
might  be  from  the  wood.  It  would  be  in  the 
morning  when  the  dew  was  on  the  grass.  It 
would  be  when  everything  was  quiet,  the  men 
away  to  their  work,  the  children  in  the  school, 
the  women  in  their  houses  —  and  the  church 
standing  against  the  sky:  oh,  how  can  you  paint 
things  that  are  not  things?"  cried  Margaret— 
"  the  air,  and  the  light,  and  the  wind,  and  the 
shadows  flying,  and  the  clouds  floating !  Oh, 
how  can  you  do  it  ?  how  can  you  do  it  ?" 

Rob  was  carried  away  by  this  flood  of  delicious 
praise ;  he  stood  modest  and  blushing,  deprecat- 
ing, yet  happy.  He  knew  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  that  his  drawing  was  not  a  poem  like  this, 
but  only  very  ordinary  water-color.  He  did  not 
know  what  to  say. 

"You  make  me  ashamed  of  my  poor  work. 
It  ought  to  be  a  great  deal  better  to  deserve  to 
be  looked  at  at  all.  The  beaitty  is  in  your  eyes," 
he  said.  But  Margaret  took  no  notice  of  this 
speech.  She  put  that  portfolio  aside,  and  open- 
ed the  other,  and  plunged  into  a  world  of  amuse- 
ment. These  were  his  more  finished  works,  the 
larger  drawings  which  he  had  done  from  his 
sketches ;  and,  indeed,  Rob  had  spent  a  great 
deal  of  time  and  trouble  upon  them  ;  they  had 
occupied  him  when  he  was  going  through  the 
squabbles  and  controversies  of  the  last  few  months. 
They  had  been  his  refuge  and  shelter  from  a 
great  deal  of  annoyance ;  and  sometimes,  when 
he  looked  at  them,  he  had  thought  they  might  be 
worthy  of  exhibition,  and  perhaps  might  help  to 
make  his  fortune — at  least  might  open  the  door 
to  him  and  put  him  in  the  way  of  making  his 
fortune.  But  at  other  times  he  fell  into  gulfs  of 
despair,  and  saw  the  truth,  which  was  that  they 
were  only  very  tolerable  studies  of  an  amateur. 
He  shook  his  head  now  while  Margaret  praised 
them.  "  Only  daubs,"  he  said,  "only  scratches. 
Ah,  you  should  see  real  artist  work.  I  am  only 
an  amateur." 

"And  so  you  ought  to  be,"  said  Margaret. 
"An  amateur  means  a  lover,  a  true  lover,  doesn't 
it?  I  mean  of  pictures,  you  know,"  she  added, 
with  her  usual  blush.  "And  if  you  do  anything 
for  love,  it  is  sure  to  be  better  than  what  you  do 
for — any  other  reason — for  money.  Could  any- 
body paint  a  real  beautiful  picture  for  money  ? 
No,"  cried  the  daring  young  theorist,  "it  must 
be  for  love. " 

"I  think  so  too,"  said  Rob.  He  reddened 
also,  but  with  more  conscious  sentiment.  "I 
think  so  too  !  and  if  I  paint  Earl's-hall,  it  will  be 
so." 

"  Will  you  ?"  said  Margaret,  grateful  and  hap- 
py. Love  of  her  was  not  what  the  girl  was  think- 
ing of;  nothing  was  farther  from  her  mind,  nor 
did  it  ever  occur  to  her  that  the  word  had  other 
meanings  than  that  she  gave  it.  Then  she  push- 
ed the  portfolio  away  from  her,  and  changed  the 
subject  in  a  moment.  "You  cannot  begin  to 
make  the  picture,  Mr.  Glen  ;  what  shall  we  do 
now  ?  Will  I  show  you  the  house  ?"  said  Mar- 
garet, with  her  Scotch  imperfection  of  grammar, 
"  or  will  you  begin  me  with  the  straight  lines,  or 
will  you  (that  would  be  the  best)  draw  something 
and  let  me  watch.  Draw  papa !  I  will  open  the 
door,  look,  like  this ;  and  he  never  stirs,  I  know 


he  will  never  stir  for  an  hour  at  a  time.  Oh, 
that  is  the  thing  I  should  like  you  to  do.  Draw 
papa!" 

Her  voice  sank  into  a  softer  cadence,  not  to 
disturb  Sir  Ludovic ;  but  her  face  was  more  ea- 
ger than  ever.  She  put  the  door  open,  showing 
like  a  picture  the  other  room  within  :  the  back- 
ground of  books  in  many  tones  of  subdued  col- 
or, with  gleams  of  old  gilding,  giving  a  russet 
edge  of  light  here  and  there.  In  the  midst  of 
the  scene  thus  disclosed  sat  Sir  Ludovic,  his  head, 
with  its  silver  locks,  leaning  back  upon  his  high 
chair. 

"I  cannot  draw  the  figure,"  Rob  had  said,  with 
anxiety  and  alarm,  feeling  the  task  too  much  for 
him ;  but,  after  all,  when  he  looked  again  there 
was  not  much  of  the  figure  visible.  The  wide 
old  velvet  coat  was  folded  over  the  old  student- 
sleepers'  tknees ;  only  his  cheek  was  visible,  still 
perfect  in  its  fine  oval,  and  the  outline  of  his  no- 
ble old  head  against  the  dark  leather  of  the  chair. 
It  was  a  study  of  still  life,  not  a  portrait,  that  was 
wanted.  Rob  looked  at  the  "  subject "  thus  pro- 
posed to  him,  and  Margaret  looked  at  him  with 
great  anxiety,  to  see  in  his  face  what  he  was  go- 
ing to  do.  Would  he  consent?  Would  he  re- 
fuse to  her  this  thing,  which,  now  that  she  had 
proposed  it,  she  felt  that  she  wanted  more  than 
anything  else  in  the  world?  Recklessly  Mar- 
garet threw  herself  "  under  obligations  "  to  the 
young  man. 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  do  it!"  she  cried,  in  a  half 
whisper,  putting  her  two  pretty  hands  together 
in  a  pretty,  spontaneous  gesture  of  supplication. 
How  could  Rob  resist,  whose  first  desire  was  to 
please  her,  and  to  whom  in  pleasing  her  so  many 
soft  brightnesses  of  pleasure  to  himself  opened 
up?  Even  without  that  motive,  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, he  would  have  been  melted  by  her  entreaty 
— he  would  have  been  proud  to  do  anything  for 
her. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  do  it ;  but  if  it  will  please 
you,  Miss  Margaret,  I  will  try." 

"Oh,  I  know  you  can  do  it,"  Margaret  cried. 
"Oh,  tell  me  what  to  bring  for  you  —  water? 
You  have  left  your  big  book  down-stairs,  but  I 
will  run  and  fetch  it,  and  the  pencils,  and — " 

"Miss  Margaret,  I  cannot  let  you  wait  upon 
me." 

"Oh,  but  I  will,  though ;  J  like  it.  Fancy! 
when  you  are  going  to  paint  papa  for  me,"  cried 
Margaret,  flying  down-stairs.  She  came  up  again, 
breathless,  laughing  and  glowing,  before  he  could 
think  what  was  the  right  tiling  to  do.  "  There 
it  is,"  she  said,  putting  down  the  sketching-block 
before  him,  "and  I  will  bring  the  water  in  a 
moment.  You  are  not  to  stir.  Oh,  Mr.  Glen, 
think  what  it  will  be  to  have  a  picture  of  papa!" 

"But  I  cannot,  indeed,  make  a  picture  of  him. 
I  cannot  draw  the  figure ;  it  is  quite  difficult.  I 
am  not  so  clever  as  you  think,"  cried  Rob,  with 
sudden  fright.  Margaret,  carried  away  by  the 
flutter  of  haste  and  pleasure,  and  half-childish 
familiar  acquaintance,  put  up  her  hand  as  if  to 
stop  his  mouth. 

What  wonder  if  Rob  almost  forgot  himself. 
He  half  put  out  his  hand  to  take  hers,  and  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  hers  with  a  look  which  some- 
how stopped  the  girl.  She  did  not  understand 
it,  but  it  frightened  her.  She  drew  a  little  far- 
ther away,  and  her  usual  blush  rushed  over  her 
face  in  a  flood  of  color.     "That  will  be  the  best 


42 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


place  to  sit,"  she  said,  half  abashed,  she  could 
not  tell  why.  And  Rob  remembered  himself, 
and  took  his  place  as  she  indicated.  She  stood 
by  him,  the  most  eager,  watchful  attendant. 
When  she  had  got  everything  he  could  want,  she 
put  herself  behind  him,  watching  over  his  shoul- 
der every  line  he  drew.  This  was  bad  for  the 
drawing ;  but  it  was  wonderfully  enchanting  and 
inspiring  for  the  young  man  thus  elevated  into  an 
artist,  a  genius,  a  creator.  He  felt  her  hand  upon 
his  chair,  he  felt  her  breath  as  she  bent  over  him, 
a  kind  of  perfumed  atmosphere  of  her  enveloped 
him.  Her  eagerness  grew  as  lines  began  to  come 
on  the  paper,  he  hardly  knew  how,  her  voice  ran 
on  close  by  his  ear  with  exclamations  and  broken 
notes  of  soft,  subdued  sound,  half  a  whisper,  half 
a  cry.  "  Oh,  is  that  how  you  begin  ?"  Margaret 
cried  ;  "  me,  I  would  have  thought  the  chair  first. 
Oh !  that  is  his  face  and  the  line  of  the  hair — 
yes ;  but  what  do  you  make  that  dot  for  in  the 
middle?  there  is  no  spot  there." 

"You  know  we  must  measure  the  lines,  and 
see  that  one  is  in  proportion  with  the  other," 
said  Rob,  holding  up  his  pencil  as  a  level ;  "  it 
would  not  do  to  make  one  part  larger  than  the 
other.  I  might  take  all  my  paper  for  one  arm 
if  I  did  not  measure ;  and  that  is  what  beginners 
often  do." 

"Oh!"  said  Margaret.  She  watched  him 
with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  her  lips  just 
parted  with  eagerness  and  interest,  her  brown 
eyes  all  aglow.  Sometimes  her  hand  would 
touch  his  shoulder  as  she  leaned  more  and  more 
over  him ;  her  breath  moved  the  hair  on  his 
temples,  and  went  through  and  through  the 
young  man.  And  he  was  very  open  to  this  kind 
of  influence.  It  did  not  require  any  mercenary 
hopes,  any  dazzling  realization  of  an  heiress,  to 
send  him  into  all  the  seductive  beguilements  of 
the  love-dream.  Jeanie  had  done  it  with  her 
simple  rural  attractions  —  how  much  more  her 
young  mistress,  with  a  whole  romance  about  her, 
and  so  many  charms,  both  visionary  and  real ! 

Rob  was  not  a  fortune-hunter,  bent  on  an  heir- 
ess. This  was  what  his  mother  would  have  had 
him  to  be ;  but  his  nature  was  too  susceptible 
for  such  a  cold-blooded  pursuit.  He  did  what 
was  far  better,  infinitely  more  likely  to  succeed, 
a  greater  stroke  of  genius  than  any  skill  of  fort- 
une-hunting— he  fell  simply  over  head  and  ears 
in  love.  He  had  done  it  before  many  times ;  it 
was  not  the  intense  and  real  passion  which  now 
and  then  carries  a  man  out  of  himself,  the  love 
that  has  no  room  in  its  heart  for  more  than  one 
image.  But  still  it  was  what  he  knew  as  that 
sentiment;  and  it  was  quite  genuine.  A  little 
mist  came  into  Rob's  eyes,  through  which  he  saw 
Sir  Ludovic  in  his  chair,  the  task  he  had  set  be- 
fore him ;  his  heart  beat  in  his  ears,  a  soft  con- 
fusion and  excitement  seized  him.  He  did  not 
know  what  he  was  doing,  as  he  sat  there  with 
Margaret  looking  over  his  shoulder.  His  expe- 
riences before  of  this  same  kind  had  been  pleas- 
ant enough,  but  none  of  them  had  possessed  the 
charm,  the  sweetness  of  this.  Not  only  was  site 
more  charming  than  any  of  his  former  loves,  but 
he  himself  was  vaguely  raised  and  elevated  as  to 
another  sphere  of  being.  In  the  dazzlement  and 
tremor  of  the  new  crisis,  the  gratification  of  his 
vanity  and  self-regard,  he  seemed  to  himself  only 
now  to  have  attained  his  true  sphere. 

"Oh,  how  wonderful  it  is!"  said  Margaret; 


"two  or  three  strokes  with  a  lead-pencil,  and 
there  is  papa !  This  is  more  wonderful  than  the 
views.  Now  his  hand,  Mr.  Glen.  How  sleep- 
ing it  is  on  the  chair!  You  could  tell  he  was 
sleeping  only  from  the  look  of  his  hand.  Hasn't 
he  a  beautiful  hand  ?  I  never  saw  one  like  it. 
My  sister  Jean's  is  white,  with  dimples  in  it ; 
they  say  she  has  a  pretty  hand  ;  but  then  she  has 
so  many  rings,  and  she  never  forgets  them.  But 
papa's  hand  is  beautiful,  I  think.  Did  you  ever 
see  one  so  fine  ?  It  has  bones  in  it,  but  Jean's 
has  no  bones.  It  is  like  himself  in  little.  Don"t 
you  think  so,  Mr.  Glen  ?" 

"You  forget  how  little  I  know  Sir  Ludovic. 
I  have  not  seen  him  since  I  was  a  boy.  But 
very  often  the  hand  is  like  the  owner  of  it,  in 
little,  as  you  say.  Your  own  is,  I  have  noticed 
that." 

"Mine?"  Margaret  raised  the  hand  referred 
to,  and  looked  at  it,  then  laughed  softly.  "  Mine 
is  a  brown  thin  thing,  all  fingers." 

"  May  I  stop  to  look  at  it  ?"  said  Rob. 

She  laughed  still  more,  and  blushed,  and  held 
it  out  with  a  little  tremor. 

"It  is  nothing  to  look  at — unless  you  know 
about  the  lines  or  can  tell  any  one's  fortune. 
Can  you  tell  any  one's  fortune  by  their  hand,  . 
Mr.  Glen?  Mine  is  as  brown  as  a  toad,  and  not 
soft  and  round  like  Jean's,  nor  like  papa's.  Oh, 
there  is  nothing  to  look  at  in  my  hand.  It  is  so 
brown.  I  think  shame  when  I  see  a  lady's  ;  but 
then  I  always  lose  my  gloves,  or  at  least  one  of 
them, "said  Margaret,  half  penitent,  half  laugh- 
ing. While  this  dialogue  was  going  on,  a  change 
had  begun ;  Sir  Ludovic  had  not  stirred  when 
she  went  to  call  him,  but  the  subdued  sound  of 
the  voices,  and  that  sense  of  being  looked  at 
which  is  so  sure  a  spell  against  sleep,  began  at 
last  to  affect  him  ;  he  stirred  slightly,  then  made 
a  little  change  of  position  ;  then  lie  said,  drowsily, 
"Little  Peggy!  are  you  there,  my  little  girl?" 

She  sprang  away  from  Rob  in  a  moment,  leav- 
ing him  somehow  dazzled,  disappointed,  and  im- 
poverished, he  could  scarcely  tell  how.  He 
would  have  caught  at  her  dress  to  detain  her, 
but  dared  not.  He  tried  one  whisper,  however, 
very  earnest  and  urgent. 

"Stay,  stay,  Miss  Margaret!  He  must  not 
move  till  I  have  done.  Do  not  answer,  and  he 
will  doze  again." 

She  only  shook  her  head  in  reply,  and  went  to 
her  father's  side  lightly  and  rapidly  like  a  bird. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  here,  papa ;  but  keep 
still,  you  are  not  to  move ;"  and  she  put  her  arms 
round  him,  standing  behind,  her  pretty  hands — 
still  pretty,  though  they  were  brown  —  upon  his 
breast.  "Now,  quick,  quick,  Mr.  Glen,"  she 
cried,  not  thinking  how  she  had  changed  the 
group  and  the  entire  sentiment  of  the  scene.  All 
at  once  it  became  dramatic,  and  utterly  beyond 
Rob,  who  had  no  gifts  that  way.  He  sat  for  a 
few  moments  vaguely  gazing  at  her,  lost  in  ad- 
miration and  pleasure:  but  he  shook  his  head. 
He  could  do  no  more. 

"Eh,  my  Peggy?  what  has  happenc.1.  r"  said 
Sir  Ludovic,  faintly  struggling  to  wake  hDiself. 
"Not  to — move? — why  am  I  not  to  move?  I 
am — living,  I  think,  still." 

"  He  is  drawing  you,  papa.  Oh,  you  will 
spoil  it — you  will  spoil  my  picture!"  cried  Mar- 
garet. She  took  away  her  arms  from  his  shoul- 
ders, provoked  and  ready  to  cry.     "If  you  only 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


43 


would  have  stayed  still  two  minutes  longer — oh, 
papa !  and  if  you  only  would  have  been  quick — 
quick,  Mr.  Glen !  But  now  my  picture's  all 
spoiled,"  cried  the  girl. 

Sir  Ludovic  came  to  himself  in  a  moment  at 
the  name. 

"Where  is  your — Mr.  Glen?"  he  said,  and 
sat  upright  and  looked  round.  Then  Rob  rose, 
very  much  embarrassed,  and  came  forward  slow- 
ly, "feeling  more  and  more  awkward.  He  felt 
like  a  country  lout  when  he  was  in  presence  of 
this  fine  old  gentleman.  He  did  not  seem  able 
even  to  walk  as  he  ought  with  Sir  Ludovic's  eyes 
upon  him,  and  grew  very  red  and  very  uncom- 
fortable ;  he  had  not  so  much  as  a  hat  to  occu- 
py his  uncultivated  hands,  and  all  his  self-pos- 
session and  powers  of  speech  seemed  to  go  from 
him.  Margaret,  too,  now  that  the  moment  had 
come,  felt  a  little  afraid. 

"We  came  while  you  were  sleeping,  papa," 
she  said,  unconscious  that  she  was  thus  identify- 
ing herself  with  her  visitor ;  "  and  as  it  was  wet, 
and  nothing  else  was  to  be  done,  and  you  were 
sleeping,  and  I  could  not  disturb  you,  I  asked 
Mr.  Glen  to  draw  you ;  and  he  has  been  making 
a  beautiful  picture — just  you,  your  very  self,  in 
j-our  big  chair — when  you  wakened.  Why  did 
you  waken  just  at  that  moment  to  stop  Mr. 
Glen's  beautiful  picture,  papa?" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Sir  Ludovic  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  liked 
the  sudden  interposition  between  his  child  and 
himself  of  this  Rob  Glen.  He  half  forgot  the 
permission  he  had  given  that  Rob  Glen  might 
come  and  teach  drawing  to  Margaret — that  was 
how  he  put  it  to  himself.  He  was  altogether 
cross  and  annoyed  by  the  circumstances  gener- 
ally. The  name  of  Rob  Glen,  and  the  descrip- 
tion of  him  as  Mrs.  Glen's  son  at  EaiTs-lee,  had 
sounded  quite  innocent,  but  the  apparition  of  a 
good-looking  young  man  had  quite  a  different 
effect  upon  Sir  Ludovic.  Perhaps  he  did  not 
look  altogether  a  gentleman,  but  then  he  looked 
quite  as  much  a  gentleman  as  various  Fife  po- 
tentates whom  Sir  Ludovic  readily  recalled  to 
mind,  and  whose  claims  to  gentility  were  un- 
questionable. For  that  matter,  young  Fallow 
of  Greenshaw,  with  the  best  blood  of  the  county 
in  his  veins,  looked  a  much  greater  lout  than 
Rob  Glen  ;  so  that  was  no  safeguard.  And  then 
he  was  half,  or  more  than  half,  affronted  by  the 
advantage  they  had  taken  of  his  doze.  It  might 
be  Margaret's  fault,  but  then  he  had  no  desire  to 
blame  his  Peggy,  and  a  great  desire  to  find  the 
young  fellow  pushing  and  disagreeable.  He 
ought  not  to  have  permitted  himself  to  take  such 
a  liberty  as  to  make  a  drawing  of  a  gentleman 
when  he  was  asleep,  notwithstanding  any  request 
that  a  foolish  girl  might  make  to  him. 

By-and-by  Sir  Ludovic  was  mollified  toward 
Marg;  re*  by  her  delight  in  having  what  she 
called  "a  picture"  of  him  at  any  cost,  and  he 
woidd  not  forbid  that  it  should  be  finished  some- 
time or  other ;  but  he  did  not  for  that  fully  for- 
give the  artist,  nor,  indeed,  did  it  make  much 
difference  that  it  was  really  a  clever  drawing, 
slight  as  it  was.  He  was  determined  to  give  no 
further  facilities  for  its  completion — not  to  fall 


asleep  again  when  Rob  Glen  was  in  the  way. 
Perhaps  if  Sir  Ludovic  had  wanted  amusement 
as  much  as  his  daughter  did,  Rob  and  bis  portfo- 
lios would  have  afforded  him  so  much  relief  on 
this  wet  day  as  to  earn  forgiveness ;  but  unfort- 
unately Sir  Ludovic  did  not  care  for  the  rain. 
He  was  not  depressed  by  it,  nor  were  his  other 
occupations  interfered  with.  Rain  or  shine,  he 
sat  in  the  same  chair  and  read  over  the  same 
books,  of  which  he  was  never  tired.  And  what 
was  a  new  little  event  to  him  ?  if  it  were  inno- 
cent, only  a  bore  and  interruption,  and  if  it  were 
not  innocent,  an  annoyance  and  trouble. 

Margaret  would  have  been  grateful  to  any- 
body— a  peddler,  if  no  better  could  be  had  ;  but 
Sir  Ludovic  felt  no  want,  and  therefore  knew  no 
gratitude.  He  was  civil.  He  looked  at  the 
portfolios  and  gave  to  their  contents  a  faint 
praise.  He  did  not  deny  that  the  outline  of 
himself,  just  put  in  to  be  finished  another  time, 
was  a  clever  drawing ;  but  at  the  same  time  he 
made  Margaret  a  little  sign  with  his  eyebrows 
to  take  the  young  man  away.  And  though  Sir 
Ludovic  had  been  startled  into  alarm  on  Marga- 
ret's account  at  the  sight  of  Rob  Glen,  it  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  he  was  increasing  all  the  dan- 
gers by  thus  requiring  of  her  that  she  should 
get  him  away.  He  threw  his  child  farther  and 
more  intimately  into  the  young  man's  society, 
though  he  felt  it  was  not  society  for  her ;  but 
what  then?  he  was  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  be 
rude  even  to  the  farmer's  son,  but  was  he  to  take 
the  trouble  to  talk  to  him,  making  conversation 
for  a  youth  who  did  not  amuse  him,  who  bored 
him,  who  kept  him  from  his  books  ?  This  was 
a  thing  which  Sir  Ludovic  did  not  understand. 
He  gave  Margaret  that  silent  intimation  of  his 
will,  and  he  opened  his  book,  which  was  another 
hint  to  the  intruder.  If  the  young  man  would 
take  the  hint  and  go,  so  much  the  better — if  not, 
then  for  this  once  it  was  better  that  Margaret 
should  entertain  him,  and  leave  her  father  in 
peace. 

"Perhaps  we  might  go  on  with  our  lesson 
now,  Mr.  Glen,"  said  Margaret,  with  one  of  her 
sudden  suffusions  of  color.  There  was  some 
meaning  in  it  this  time,  for  she  felt  that  her  fa- 
ther was  wanting  in  courtesy,  and  was  terrified 
lest  Mr.  Glen  should  think  he  was  cavalierly 
treated.  She  took  up  the  great  portfolio  her- 
self to  carry  it  away,  and  would  not  let  Rob  take 
it  from  her. 

"Why  should  not  I  carry  it?"  she  said. 
"You  came  to  give  us  pleasure,  not  to  please 
yourself,  Mr.  Glen — and  of  course  I  will  carry 
the  book.  It  is  not  at  all  heavy,"  she  said,  lug- 
ging it  along.  Perhaps  she  intended  to  con- 
vince Sir  Ludovic  of  his  own  indifference  to  his 
visitor  and  failure  in  the  politeness  necessary ; 
and  some  idea  of  this  kind  did  cross  the  old 
man's  mind,  but  too  lightly  to  make  the  impres- 
sion his  daughter  intended.  It  was  not  much 
to  him  to  see  her  carrying  big  books,  and  he 
was  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  visitor.  He  drew  a 
long  breath  of  relief  when  the  young  pair  disap- 
peared in  the  West  Chamber.  He  could  not 
be  troubled  with  Rob  Glen.  He  had  been  civil 
enough.  Sir  Ludovic  was  not  capable  of  being 
uncivil  under  his  own  roof;  but  why  should  he 
take  more  trouble  ?  As  for  Margaret,  the  idea 
of  any  danger  to  her,  or  impropriety  in  this  com- 
panionship for  her,  died  out  of  his  mind  when 


44 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


put  in  comparison  with  his  risk  of  being  dis- 
turbed in  his  own  person.  He  was  glad  to  get 
rid  of  the  two.  Had  Margaret  even  been  alone, 
he  would  have  said,  "  Run  away,  my  little  Peg- 
gy, run  and  play,"  in  those  habitual  words  which 
wounded  Margaret's  pride  of  young  womanhood 
so  much.  He  opened  his  book,  and  set  it 
straight  before  him,  and  placed  himself  at  a 
more  comfortable  angle :  and  then — his  eyelids 
began  to  come  together  once  more,  his  head 
drooped  on  his  breast,  then  settled  on  the  back 
of  his  chair. 

It  was  afternoon,  and  all  was  drowsy  and  still ; 
very  still  was  the  long  room,  now  those  younger 
creatures  were  gone.  The  rain  streamed  down 
outside  with  a  soft,  continuous  patter  upon  the 
trees.  The  skies  were  all  gray,  the  earth  all 
silent.  The  faintest  hum,  no  more  than  might 
come  from  a  beehive,  might  sometimes  be  audi- 
ble from  the  West  Chamber,  but  the  walls  were 
thick  and  the  doors  fitted  closely.  If  he  heard 
the  voices  at  all,  they  fell  into  the  subdued  patter 
of  the  rain,  the  general  stillness.  Afternoon — 
and  seventy-five.  What  reason  had  he  to  keep 
himself  awake,  to  insist  upon  living  instead  of 
sleeping  through  that  heavy,  silent,  drowsy  af- 
ternoon? And  yet  he  did  not  like  to  think  he 
had  been  sleeping.  When  John  came  in  behind 
the  screen  and  began  to  prepare  for  dinner,  Sir 
Ludovic  sat  upright  with  very  wide-open  eyes. 
He  was  always  erect,  but  now  he  sat  bolt- up- 
right in  his  chair. 

"Is  that  you,  John?"  he  said,  with  unusual 
suavity,  so  that  the  old  man  might  entertain  no 
doubt  of  his  perfectly  wide-awake  condition. 

"Ay,  it's  just  me,  Sir  Ludovic,"  said  John. 
No  one  could  have  been  more  indifferent  on  this 
subject  than  John  was.  He  knew  very  well 
that  his  master  was  apt  to  doze  the  afternoon 
through — but  what  of  that?  It  was  a  privilege 
of  his  position,  not  a  misfortune.  Old  John 
would  gladly  have  dozed  too,  and  found  it  en- 
tirely natural.  He  himself  took  a  nap  whenever 
he  could  get  it,  and  though  he  would  cling  with 
natural  vehemence  to  the  fact  that  he  had  "not 
slept  a  wink,"  there  was  neither  shame  nor  an- 
noyance in  his  mind  at  being  caught  in  the  act. 
The  signs  of  old  age  were  not  alarming  nor 
troublesome  to  John ;  he  had  a  distinct  pleasure 
in  perceiving  them  in  his  master,  and  no  objec- 
tion to  put  them  forth  for  himself,  to  boast  a  lit- 
tle of  what  he  still  could  do  "at  my  age," and 
to  claim  all  manner  of  little  exemptions  on  this 
score.  The  old  master  sat  up  very  erect  in  his 
chair,  with  a  great  pretence  of  interest  and  ab- 
sorption in  his  book,  to  cheat  the  other's  obser- 
vations, but  the  old  servant  was  not  to  be  cheated. 
He  said  to  himself  quite  calmly,  and  to  Bell  when 
he  went  down-stairs,  "Sir  Ludovic's  getting  an 
auld  man." 

"No  so  much  aulder  than  yoursel', "  Bell  re- 
torted, promptly. 

"Was  I  saying  he  was  much  aulder  than  my- 
sel'  ?  He's  nearer  ten  years  than  five — and  that 
makes  a  great  difference;  but  you  women  are 
aye  for  comparisons,"  said  John.  "I  said  he 
was  getting  an  auld  man." 

How  differently  the  same  sentiment  mingled 
with  the  great  stillness  in  the  long  room !  Sir 
Ludovic  did  not  want  any  change ;  he  was  well 
enough,  willing  to  last  just  as  he  was,  hoping 
nothing  different,  satisfied  if  he  could  only  go  on 


so.  But  here,  creeping  about  him,  irresistible, 
not  even  to  be  kept  at  arm's-length  or  regarded 
as  something  outside  of  himself,  were  the  symp- 
toms of  change  coming.  How  erect  he  sat,  how 
wide-awake  he  forced  himself  to  look !  he  would 
not  own  to  the  weakness,  and  perhaps,  who 
could  tell,  by  mere  ignoring,  might  vanquish — 
or,  at  least,  appear  to  vanquish  it.  But  it  was 
not  to  be  forgotten,  nor  even  resisted  very  effec- 
tively. Even  John's  movements,  the  passing 
of  himself  or  his  shadow  across  the  light,  the 
sound  of  his  heavy  old  leisurely  footsteps,  the 
slight  clang  of  the  silver  and  tinkle  of  the  glass 
as  it  was  put  on  the  table,  began  to  take  a  cer- 
tain rhythm,  and  to  lull  the  listener  once  more. 
"There  must  be  something  the  matter  witli 
me,"  Sir  Ludovic  said,  as  he  roused  himself 
once  more  with  an  effort,  and  got  up  to  shake 
himself  free,  by  movement,  from  the  spell. 
Movement,  that  must  be  what  he  wanted — a  lit- 
tle exercise,  which  he  was  aware  he  had  neglect- 
ed sadly.  But  now,  perhaps,  it  might  be  of  use. 
He  had  to  go  to  prepare  for  dinner,  which  was 
always  of  use  in  charming  the  drowsiness  away. 

Margaret  came  in  a  few  minutes  after  with  a 
little  flutter  and  rustle  of  roused  life  about  her, 
which  was  very  different  from  the  slumbrous  at- 
mosphere of  old  age,  in  which  Sir  Ludovic  had 
discovered  himself  to  be  sinking.  She  was  very 
eager,  and  at  the  same  time  doubtful,  as  to  what 
he  would  say  to  her ;  he  had  not  found  her  vis- 
itor so  delightful  as  she  had  done,  she  felt.  To 
Margaret  the  afternoon  had  been  full  of  pleasure. 
The  wet  day,  which  in  the  morning  had  filled  her 
with  despair,  had  become  more  attractive  than 
the  finest  of  weather :  Rob's  society,  the  novelty 
of  talking  to  him,  of  pouring  forth  her  own  ideas 
upon  subjects  with  which  Bell,  for  instance,  had 
little  sympathy,  and  of  hearing  from  him  a  great 
deal  which,  if  not  very  new  in  itself,  was  pro- 
foundly intellectual,  brilliantly  original  to  the  lit- 
tle country  girl  —  had  transported  Margaret. 
How  clever  he  was,  how  well  he  could  talk !  She 
had  never  met  with  anybody  like  him.  What 
worlds  of  books  he  had  read !  not,  perhaps,  such 
learned  books  (but  of  this  she  was  not  quite  sure) 
as  papa.  But  then  papa  did  not  talk  of  them ; 
and  Mr.  Glen  was  so  willing  to  talk  of  them, 
mingling  his  own  impressions  and  ideas  witli 
hers,  quoting  his  favorite  poets  and  leading  Mar- 
garet herself,  shyly,  with  glowing  eyes  and  flam- 
ing cheeks,  to  quote  hers,  and  "say"  verses  out 
loud  which  she  had  said  to  herself  with  all  the 
sweet  enthusiasm  of  youth  in  many  a  solitary 
place,  but  had  never  found  anybody  to  care  for. 
Even  Jeanie,  Jeanie  who  was  young,  and  full  of 
natural  poetry  too,  when  Margaret  had  tried  to 
"say  "  her  beloved  "pieces " to  her,  had  dropped 
asleep,  which  had  been  one  of  the  girl's  great  dis- 
appointments in  life. 

When  she  was  younger,  Bell,  indeed,  had  lis- 
tened with  great  complacency  to  these  "  pieces," 
as  proving  how  clever  the  child  was ;  but  from 
that  time  to  this,  when  she  suddenly  found  that 
Rob  Glen  knew  them  too,  and  would  say  half, 
asking  if  she  remembered  the  next  —  most  de- 
lightful of  suggestions  —  she  had  found  nobody 
who  cared,  nobody  who  would  listen  and  respond. 
Margaret's  eyes  grew  brighter  and  brighter,  the 
ready  flush  of  feeling  went  and  came  over  her 
face  "like  the  flying  shadows  on  a  sunshiny  land- 
scape, as  quick  as  those  shadows  fly  upon  the 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


45 


hills;  and  a  soft  excitement  got  possession  of 
her.  She  talked  as  she  had  never  talked  in  her 
life  before,  and  impressed  him  as  he  impressed 
her  by  that  easy  poetry  of  youth  which  can  look 
almost  like  genius  in  its  early  outpouring.  A 
mutual  admiration,  a  mutual  interest,  thus  sprang 
up  between  them  :  and  how  much  your  admira- 
tion of  the  superiority  of  another  is  increased  by 
the  certainty  that  the" other  shows  his  superiority 
by  admiring  you,  who  can  doubt  ?  Rob,  too,  felt 
all  this.  He  was  dazzled  himself  by  the  pretty, 
simple  strains  of  thinking  and  feeling  which  Mar- 
garet showed  unawares,  and  he  dazzled  her  (wit- 
tingly and  of  purpose)  by  his  own  eloquence, 
his  theories,  his  deep  thoughts,  his  lofty  fancies. 
How  delightful  it  all  was,  and  how  the  hours  of 
wetness  out-of-doors,  of  slow- falling  rain,  and 
heavy  clouds,  and  drippings  and  patterings  and 
overflowings,  tedious  to  everybody  else,  flew  over 
the  two  young  people  in  the  little  panelled  room  ! 

The  drawing-lesson  was  not  so  happy;  spite 
of  all  the  master's  efforts,  it  had  been  impossible 
to  get  Margaret's  wavering  pencil  to  execute  the 
necessary  straight  line.  This  had  been  hum- 
bling; but  it  had  been  partially  sweetened  by 
Rob's  assurance  that  many  who  could  not  over- 
come such  a  commonplace  difficulty  became  ex- 
cellent in  color,  and  in  a  sense  of  the  harmonies 
of  Nature.  What  a  lovely  phrase  this  was,  "the 
harmonies  of  Nature!"  Margaret  felt  instinc- 
tively that  she  would  understand  them,  though 
she  could  not  make  a  straight  line.  Then  she 
took  him  over  the  house,  showing  him  "  the 
high  room,"  which  was  over  the  long  room,  the 
vaulted  gallery  with  its  tapestries,  which  filled 
him  with  wonder  and  admiration.  Neither  of 
them  perceived  another  figure,  which  retreated 
before  them,  getting  out  of  their  way  as  they  lin- 
gered at  every  point  of  interest,  and  which  was 
poor  Jeanie,  who  finally  took  refuge  behind  the 
tapestry,  with  a  forlorn  wish  to  see  and  hear 
again  the  faithless  "  freend"  who  had  forgotten 
her.  The  two  stood  close  to  that  tapestry  for 
some  time,  he  talking,  smiling  upon  the  young 
lady,  giving  her  a  great  deal  of  information  (of 
dubious  accuracy)  about  tapestry  and  art  manu- 
factures, while  Jeanie,  in  great  terror  of  discov- 
ery, and  still  greater  shame  and  horror  of  her- 
self for  so  mean  an  action  as  "listening,"  lurk- 
ed behind,  scarlet  with  anxiety,  confusion,  and 
wretchedness.  Jeanie,  however,  it  is  needless 
to  deny,  was  a  little  comforted  by  what  she  heard. 

Courtship  goes  quickly  on  the  lower  levels  of 
society,  and  how  Rob  should  occupy  the  time  in 
talking  of  the  old  hangings  which  were  just  "an 
awfu'  place  for  dust,"  if  he  really  wished  to  make 
himself  agreeable  to  Miss  Margaret,  Jeanie  could 
not  understand.  "  No  a  word  but  that  the  hale 
world  might  hear,"  she  said  to  herself,  puzzled 
but  soothed,  as  she  escaped  to  her  little  room  in 
the  top  of  the  turret,  after  the  others  had  gone 
away.  She  could  hear  their  voices,  with  little 
breaks  of  laughter  still  going  on,  as  they  went 
down-stairs — the  same  sound  which  was  as  the 
humming  of  bees  to  Sir  Ludovic  in  his  great 
chair.  Not  so,  Jeanie  knew,  had  Rob  made  his 
advances  to  herself.  These  approaches  were 
much  less  abstract,  far  more  rapid.  Perhaps 
"he  wasna  meaning  onything,"  perhaps  it  was 
but  a  polite  visit,  for  abstract  reasons,  occupied 
by  abstract  subjects.  This  thought  consoled 
Jeanie,  and  made  her  heart  swell  with  a  secret 


pride  in  Rob's  education  and  capability  to  hold 
his  place  with  the  best. 

But,  after  all  this,  Margaret,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed, did  not  present  herself  c^uite  so  calmly  as 
usual  at  the  dinner-table.  She  had  a  little  rose- 
tint,  which  was  very  seldom  permanent,  upon 
her  pretty  cheek,  and  her  eyes  glowed  with  un- 
usual brightness.  She  was  more  resigned  than 
usual  to  the  ceremony  of  being  handed  to  her 
seat,  and  did  not  think  the  two  old  men  were 
making  a  fool  of  her,  as  she  was  apt  to  do ;  and 
she  did  not  say  anything,  but  awaited  her  fa- 
ther's questioning  with  much  suppressed  excite- 
ment. Sir  Ludovic  for  some  time  disappointed 
her  by  saving  nothing  on  the  subject  —  which, 
when  you  expect  to  be  questioned,  and,  indeed, 
to  be  found  fault  with,  and  stand  on  the  defen- 
sive, is  the  most  trying  of  all  treatment.  How- 
ever, after  a  time,  Margaret's  pulses  woke  again 
to  liveliest  beating. 

"  Did  your  artist  stay  long,  my  Peggy  ?"  slie 
heard  Sir  Ludovic  saying,  without  any  warning 
at  all. 

"  Oh !  n-not  very  long,  papa,"  said  Margaret, 
slightly  faltering.  Then — for  she  suddenly  re- 
membered that  John,  who  knew  everything  that 
went  on,  did  by  no  means  hesitate  to  contradict 
her  when  he  thought  proper — she  added,  hasti- 
ly, "But  first  he  learned  me  to  draw." 

"That  was  very  clever  of  him,"  said  Sir  Lu- 
dovic; "and  did  you  learn,  as  you  say,  to  draw 
— all  in  one  lesson,  my  little  Peggy  ?  That  was 
very  clever  of  you,  too." 

"Why  should  you  always  make  a  fool  of 
me?" said  Margaret,  pathetically.  "You  know 
I  did  not  mean  that,  papa.  But  we  tried ;  and 
then  I  let  him  see  the  house,  and  the  high  room, 
and  the  tapestry.  We  could  not  go  up  to  the 
tower,  because  it  was  raining.  He  is  to  come 
another  day,"  said  Margaret,  with  the  extreme 
of  simple  candor,  "to  see  the  view  from  the 
tower.  And  he  thought  the  tapestry  was  very 
fine,  papa." 

"Did  he,  my  little  Peggy?  Then  I  fear  he 
cannot  know  very  much  about  it,"  said  Sir  Lu- 
dovic. "He  is  rather  a  clumsy  imitation  of  a 
hero,  very  rustic  and  Fifish,  your  Mr.  Glen." 

"You  call  me  Fifish  too,"  said  Margaret,  with 
a  little  laugh  which  expressed  a  good  deal  of  ir- 
ritation. The  finest  and  most  significant  satire 
was  implied  in  Margaret's  tone.  "If  me,  then 
anybody!"  it  seemed  to  say,  with  a  mixture  of 
wounded  pride  and  sense  of  absurdity.  Sir  Lu- 
dovic forgot  the  moral  he  had  meant  to  draw  in 
his  amusement.  He  laughed,  with  that  tender 
laugh  which  is  called  from  us  by  the  dear  follies 
of  our  children. 

"  Did  I  call  you  Fifish  too,  my  Peggy  ? — which 
shows  I  am  a  very  ignorant,  ridiculous  old  man. 
But  he  should  not  have  begun  that  drawing  of 
your  old  father  while  I — dozed.  It  is  not  often 
I  doze,"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  with  the  same  uneasy 
feeling  which  Margaret  had  felt,  that  old  John 
behind  his  chair  was  quite  capable  of  contradict- 
ing him;  "and  if  he  had  been  a  gentleman,  I 
don't  think  he  would  have  done  it." 

"Oh!"  cried  Margaret,  clasping  her  hands, 
"it  was  all  my  fault — I  assure  you  it  was  all  my 
fault,  papa." 

"Well,  my  little  girl :  but  a  gentleman  would 
not  have  done  it.  He  would  not  have  taken  an 
advantage  of  a  man  he  did  not  know.     Friends 


46 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


may  do  that  kind  of  thing,  but  not  a  stranger, 
my  little  Peggy. " 

"Oh,  papa!"  cried  Margaret,  the  tears  com- 
ing to  her  eyes,  "why  will  you  always  blame 
other  people  for  what  was  my  fault?  He  did 
not  want  to  do  it  (this  was  a  fib,  but  perhaps  a 
pardonable  one);  it  was  me  that  wanted  it,  papa ; 
and  when  I  said  to  him,  '  Oh,  Mr.  Glen,  I  have 
not  got  any  picture  of  papa,  not  even  a  poor 
photograph  —  oh,  draw  me  a  picture  of  papa!' 
he  did  it;  but  it  was  me  that  wanted  it — and 
how  could  he  refuse  me?" 

"  He  would  have  been  a  brute  if  he  had,"  said 
the  old  man,  melted;  "but  still  it  is  true,  my 
Peggy,  your  stranger  should  not  have  done  that, 
without  my  knowledge,  the  first  time  he  ever 
saw  me." 

"As  if  he  had  not  known  you  all  his  life!" 
cried  Margaret.  "He  knew  you  as  well  as  I 
did  when  we  were  little — when  you  used  to  walk 
about.  He  wondered  why  you  never  walked 
about  now ;  he  asked  me  if  you  were  ill,  and  I 
told  him  you  were  not  ill,  only — " 

"  Only  "what,  my  little  girl? — old  and  useless?" 
said  Sir  Ludovic,  with  a  pathetic  undertone  of 
protest,  yet  acquiescence,  a  wistful  desire  to  be 
contradicted  in  his  faltering  voice. 

"No  —  oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  papa.  I  did 
not  mean  to  be  so — impudent.  It  sounds  so, 
but  I  did  not  mean  it.  I  said  you  were  only — 
lazy. " 

Sir  Ludovic  laughed.  What  relief  was  in  the 
laugh !  what  ease  from  the  pang  which  had 
struck  him !  His  little  girl,  at  least,  did  not  see 
the  true  state  of  affairs,  and  why  should  he  not 
be  able  to  look  at  this,  at  least,  through  her  eyes? 

"Perhaps  there  is  some  truth  in  it,"  he  said. 
"You  were  always  saucy,  my  Peggy.  If  I  were 
not  so  lazy,  but  moved  about  a  little  more,  it 
might  be  better  for  me.  What  have  you  to  say 
against  that?"  he  cried,  turning  round  half  an- 
grily to  old  John,  who  had  given  a  significant 
"Humph !"  behind  his  chair. 

"  Oh,  just  nothing  at  all,  Sir  Ludovic.  I  was- 
na  speaking.  But  exercise  is  good  for  man  and 
beast — when  they're  no  ower  auld  or  ower  frail." 

Sir  Ludovic  laughed  again,  though  less  pleas- 
antly. 

"I  will  defy  the  cleverest  talker  in  the  world," 
he  cried,  "old  John,  you  old  grumbler,  to  make 
anything  of  you." 

"I  just  aye  say  what  I  think,  Sir  Ludovic," 
said  the  old  man,  without  a  smile ;  but  he 
chuckled  when  he  went  down-stairs  and  recount- 
ed the  incident  to  Bell.  "Would  he  hev  me  say 
he  was  as  souple  as  a  laud  o'  twenty  ?"  said  old 
John. 

"Ye  auld  grumbler,  as  Sir  Ludovic  weel  says. 
What  for  could  you  no  say  a  pleasant  word  to 
pleasure  the  maister?"  cried  the  more  sympa- 
thetic Bell. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Sir  Ludovic  was  reading  a  book  which  was 
of  the  greatest  interest  to  him,  connected  with  a 
branch  of  study  in  which  he  was  strong,  and  in 
which  he  himself  meant  to  leave  his  mark  for 
other  students ;  but  he  could  not  fix  his  atten- 
tion to  it.  Was  it  that  he  was  drowsy  again 
this  fresh  morning?    The  rain  and  all  the  clouds 


had  cleared  away.  The  whole  earth  was  fresh- 
ened and  sweetened  by  the  deluge  of  the  previous 
day,  and  everything  was  rejoicing  in  the  return 
of  the  sun.  The  birds  chirped  more  loudly  than 
usual,  and  a  playful  little  wind,  a  kind  of  baby- 
breeze,  an  elemental  urchin,  full  of  fun  and  mis- 
chief, was  in  the  wood,  shaking  the  trees,  and 
sending  showers  of  glittering  drops  at  any  mo- 
ment upon  the  soaked  and  humid  soil.  The 
fragrance  of  the  grass,  and  "goodly  smell"  of 
the  turned  -  up  rich  brown  earth,  that  genial 
mother  soil  out  of  which  was  not  man  made,  and 
unto  which  he  goes  back  when  the  world  is  done 
with  him  ?  was  in  the  air.  Summer  is  so  wide  in 
her  common  blessings ;  for  everybody  something ; 
to  those  who  have,  the  joyful  fruits  of  the  earth, 
to  those  who  have  not,  at  least  this  goodly  smell. 
The  window  was  open ;  the  wind  came  in 
fresh  and  sweet,  ruffling  such  papers  as  it  could 
find  about,  and  singing  airy  songs  to  Margaret 
as  she  went  and  came.  But  it  was  an  air  of  a 
different  kind  that  it  breathed  about  Sir  Ludo- 
vic in  his  chair.  Drowsy?  —  no,  he  was  not 
drowsy,  in  the  softness  of  the  morning,  but  his 
mind  was  full  of  thoughts  which  were  not  cheer- 
ful. He  had  lived  for  so  long  a  time  in  one 
steady,  endless,  unchanging  routine,  that  it  had 
seemed  as  if  it  never  would  end.  The  more 
active  pleasures  and  toils  of  life  must  end,  it  is 
certain ;  but  why  should  the  gentle  routine  of  a 
recluse  life  ever  be  disturbed?  Five  years  ago, 
when  he  had  been  seventy,  thoughts  of  the  age 
he  had  attained  and  the  crisis  he  had  reached 
had  been  in  his  mind.  The  full  score  of  years 
had  been  accomplished,  and  what  reason  had  he 
to  expect  that  they  should  be  prolonged !  But 
they  had  been  prolonged,  and  the  old  man  had 
been  lulled  into  absolute  calm.  He  had  good 
health ;  nothing  except 

"Those  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size," 

to  remind  him  how  near  he  must  be  to  the  end. 
He  had  risen  up  cheerfully  in  the  morning,  and 
gone  to  bed  cheerfully  at  night ;  and  what  was 
to  hinder  that  it  should  be  so  forever  ?  But  now 
all  at  once  the  old  man  seemed  to  hear  the  mes- 
senger knocking  at  the  door.  He  was  knocking 
very  softly  as  yet,  only  a  confused,  faint  tapping, 
which  might  be  some  chance  passer-by,  and  not 
the  emissary  of  the  Great  King  —  tapping  very 
softly,  and  the  door  had  not  yet  been  opened  to 
him;  but  how  if  it  was  he?  This  was  the  thought 
that  assailed  Sir  Ludovic  with  something  like 
the  same  fretting,  disturbing  influence  as  actual 
knocking  at  the  old  door,  faintly  persistent,  though 
never  violent,  might  have  had.  He  was  impa- 
tient of  it,  but  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  rid 
of  it.  After  all,  it  was  not  wonderful  that  an 
old  man  should  get  tired  and  be  drowsy  in  the 
afternoon.  He  had  not  for  a  long  time  acknowl- 
edged to  himself  that  this  was  the  case;  but 
lately  it  had  been  difficult  to  deny  it,  and  the 
little  event  of  yesterday  had  forced  it,  with  a 
deepened  touch  of  the  disagreeable,  on  his  no- 
tice. 

Rob  Glen's  sketch,  though  it  was  so  slight, 
had  conveyed  a  stronger  impression  to  his  own 
mind  of  his  own  agedness  and  feebleness  than 
all  his  other  experiences  of  himself.  The  old 
figure  reclining  back  in  the  easy-chair,  thin,  with 
meagre  limbs  following  the  angles  of  the  chair,, 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


47 


and  languid,  helpless  bands  stretched  out  upon 
its  supports  :  the  sight  of  it  had  given  Sir  Ludo- 
vic  a  shock.  He  had  been  partially  soothed  af- 
terward by  the  natural  desire  of  Margaret  to  have 
"  a  picture  "  of  him,  as  she  said.  "  Not  like  the 
grand  gentleman  over  the  mantel-piece,"  the  girl 
had  said,  "but  in  your  chair,  sitting  there  with 
your  book,  as  you  have  always,  always  been  to 
me."  This  "always,  always,"  had  been  a  com- 
fort to  him.  It  had  breathed  the  very  essence 
of  that  continuance  which  had  seemed  to  become 
the  one  quality  of  life  that  mattered  much ;  but 
notwithstanding  Margaret's  "  always,"  the  sketch 
had  given  him  a  shock.  He  thought  of  it  again 
this  morning  as  he  sat  in  the  same  spot  and  felt 
now  and  then  the  soft  puff  of  the  fresh  summer 
air.  Was  it,  perhaps,  that  even  Margaret,  his  lit- 
tle Peggy,  was  already  conscious  of  that  "after- 
ward," when  it  would  be  something  for  her  to 
have  even  so  slight  a  sketch  of  her  father  ?  That 
bit  of  paper  would  last  longer  than  he  should. 
When  his  chair  had  been  set  back  against  the 
wall,  and  his  books  all  dispersed  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  how  well  he  could  fancy  his  little  girl 
taking  it  out,  crying,  perhaps  —  then  smiling, 
saying,  "  This  is  the  one  I  like  best  of  poor 
papa ;  that  was  how  he  used  to  be  at  the  last. " 
She  would  cry  at  first,  poor  little  girl — it  would 
make  a  great  difference  to  his  little  Peggy  ;  but 
after  a  while  she  would  smile,  and  be  able  to  tell 
how  like  it  was  to  poor  papa. 

So  vivid  was  this  imagination  that  Sir  Ludo- 
vic  almost  seemed  to  see  and  hear  already  all 
that  he  imagined ;  and  the  fancy  gave  him  no 
pang.  It  was  only  part  of  a  confused  discom- 
fort of  which  he  could  not  get  rid.  This  is  so 
different  from  most  of  our  disquietudes.  In 
other  matters  it  is  almost  certain  that  the  future 
which  alarms  us  will  come  with  a  difference  at 
least.  Our  apprehensions  will  change,  if  no 
more,  and  we  will  be  able  to  persuade  ourselves 
either  that  the  evil  we  fear  may  not  come,  or 
that  it  will  not  be  so  great  an  evil  as  we 
thought.  But  the  case  is  otherwise  when  it  is 
death  that  is  coming,  whether  to  another  or  to 
ourselves.  That  is  the  one  thing  which  is  not  to 
be  got  rid  of.  Poor  human  nature,  so  shifty,  so 
clever  at  eluding  its  burdens,  so  sanguine  that 
to-morrow  will  not  be  as  to-day,  is  brought  to  a 
stand  befoi'e  this  one  approach  which  cannot  be 
eluded.  No  use  attempting  to  escape  from  this, 
to  say  that  something  unforeseen  may  happen, 
that  things  may  turn  out  better.  Better  or  worse 
than  we  think,  it  may  be ;  but  there  is  no  elud- 
ing it.  Sir  Ludovic  could  not  steal  past  on  one 
side  or  the  other  to  avoid  the  sight  of  Him  who 
was  approaching.  This  was  the  inevitable  in 
actual  presence.  If  not  to-day,  then  to-morrow, 
next  day ;  in  any  case,  coming  always  nearer 
and  more  near. 

These  thoughts  had  been  forced  upon  him  by 
the  progress  of  events,  chiefly  by  that  drowsi- 
ness which  he  did  not  like,  but  could  not  ignore 
nor  yet  resist.  Why  should  he  be  so  ready  to 
sleep?  it  had  never  been  his  way;  and  the 
thoughts  it  roused  within  him  now,  when  it  had 
forced  itself  on  his  attention,  were  very  confus- 
ing. He  was  rather  religious  than  otherwise, 
not  a  man  of  profane  mind.  True,  he  had  not 
of  late,  in  the  languor  that  had  crept  over  him, 
been  very  regular  in  his  attendance  at  church ; 
but  he  was  not  undevout — rather,  on  the  whole, 


disposed  toward  pious  observances ;  and  without 
going  into  any  minuteness  of  faith,  a  sound  be- 
liever. The  effect  of  these  new  thoughts  upon 
him  in  this  respect  was  strange.  He  said  to 
himself  that  it  was  his  duty  to  think  of  his  latter 
end,  to  consider  the  things  that  concerned  his 
peace  before  they  were  forever  hid  from  his  eyes. 
Anyhow,  even  if  he  was  not  going  to  die,  this 
would  be  right.  To  think  of  his  latter  end,  to 
consider  the  things  that  concerned  his  everlast- 
ing peace.  Yes,  yes,  this  was,  there  could  be  no 
doubt,  the  right  thing  as  well  as  the  most  expe- 
dient ;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  repeated  this  sug- 
gestion to  himself,  the  most  trivial  fancy  would 
seize  upon  him,  the  merest  nothing  would  take 
possession  of  his  mind,  till,  with  a  little  start  as 
of  awaking,  he  would  come  back  to  the  recollec- 
tion that  he  had  something  else  to  do  with  his 
thoughts,  that  he  must  consider  his  latter  end. 
So  easy  it  was  to  conclude  that  much,  if  that 
would  do — but  so  difficult  to  go  farther!  And 
all  was  so  strange  before  him,  far  more  confus- 
ing than  the  thought  of  any  other  change  in  life. 
To  go  to  India,  to  go  to  China,  would  be  trou- 
blesome for  an  old  man  —  if  such  a  thing  had 
been  suggested  to  him,  no  doubt  he  would  have 
said  that  he  would  much  prefer  to  die  quietly  at 
home  —  yet  dying  quietly,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  is  far  more  bewildering  than  going  to 
China.  It  was  not  that  he  felt  afraid;  judg- 
ment was  not  the  thing  that  appalled  him. 

No  doubt  there  were  many  things  in  his  life 
that  he  might  have  done  better,  that  he  would 
gladly  have  altered  altogether,  but  these  were 
not  the  things  that  oppressed  him.  Nothing 
could  be  farther  from  the  old  man's  mind  than 
that  thought  of  "an  angry  God"  which  is  sup- 
posed in  so  much  simple-minded  theology  to  be 
the  great  terror  of  death.  It  was  not  an  angry 
God  that  Sir  Ludovic  feared.  He  had  that  sort 
of  dumb  confidence  in  God  which  perhaps  would 
not  satisfy  any  stern  religionist,  but  which  is 
more  like  the  sentiment  of  the  relation  which 
God  himself  has  chosen  to  express  his  position 
toward  men  than  any  other — a  kind  of  unques- 
tioning certainty  that  what  God  would  do  with 
him  would  be  the  right  thing,  the  most  just, 
the  most  kind ;  but  then  he  had  no  notion  what 
kind  of  thing  that  would  be,  which  made  it  very 
confusing,  very  depressing  to  him. 

An  old  man,  by  the  time  he  has  got  to  be  sev- 
enty-five, has  given  over  theorizing  about  life ;  he 
has  no  longer  courage  enough  to  confront  the 
unknown — quiet  continuance,  without  any  break 
or  interruption,  is  the  thing  that  seems  best  for 
him ;  but  here  was  an  ending  about  to  come,  a 
breaking  off — and  only  the  unknown  beyond ; 
and  no  escaping  from  it,  no  staving  it  off,  no  post- 
ponement. All  so  familiar  here,  so  natural,  the 
well-known  chair,  the  old  cosy  coat :  and  beyond 
— what  ?  he  could  not  tell  what :  an  end ;  that 
was  all  that  was  certain  and  clear.  He  believed 
everything  that  a  Christian  should  believe,  not 
to  say  such  primary  principles  as  the  immortality 
of  the  soul ;  but  imagination  was  no  longer  live- 
ly nor  hope  strong  in  the  old  man,  and  what  he 
believed  had  not  much  to  do  with  what  he  felt. 
This  was  not  an  elevated  state  of  mind,  but  it 
was  true  enough.  He  himself  felt  guilty,  that  he 
could  not  realize  something  better,  that  he  could 
not  rise  to  some  height  of  contemplation  which 
would  make  him  glad  of  his  removal  into  realms 


THE  PEIMROSE  PATH. 


above.     This  was  how  he  ought  to  think  of  it, 
ought  to  realize  it,  he  knew. 

But  he  could  not  be  clear  of  anything  except 
the  stop  which  was  coming.  To  sit  in  his  old 
chair  with  his  old  book,  the  fresh  morning  air 
breathing  in  upon  him,  his  little  girl  coming  and 
going,  these  were  not  much  to  have,  of  all  the 
good  things  of  which  the  world  is  full ;  but  they 
were  enough  for  him.  And  to  think  that  one  of 
these  mornings  he  should  no  longer  be  there,  the 
chair  pushed  away  against  the  wall,  the  books 
packed  up  on  its  shelf,  or  worse,  sent  off  to  some 
dusty  auction-room  to  be  sold ;  and  himself — 
himself :  where  would  old  Sir  Ludovic  be  ?  shiv- 
ering, unclothed  in  some  unknown  being,  per- 
haps seeing  wistfully,  unable  to  help  it,  the  dis- 
mantling of  everything  here,  and  his  little  girl 
crying  in  a  corner,  but  unable  to  console  her. 
He  knew  he  ought  to  be  thinking  of  high  spirit- 
ual communion,  of  the  music  of  the  spheres.  But 
he  could  not ;  even  of  his  little  Peggy  crying  for 
her  old  father  and  missing  him,  he  did  not  think 
much  :  but  most  of  the  dull,  strange  fact  that  he 
would  be  gone  away,  a  thing  60  strange  and  yet 
so  certain  that  it  gave  him  a  vertigo  and  bewil- 
dering giddiness — and  sometimes,  too,  a  kind  of 
dreary  impatience,  a  desire  to  get  it  over  and 
know  the  worst  that  could  happen ;  though  he 
was  not  afraid  of  any  worst.  There  was  no  In- 
ferno in  that  vague  world  before  him,  nothing 
but  dimness ;  though,  perhaps,  that  was  almost 
worse  than  an  Inferno — a  wide,  vague,  confusing 
desert  of  the  unknown. 

These  thoughts  were  present  with  him  even 
while  he  held  playful  conversations  with  Mar- 
garet and  talked  to  old  John  and  Bell,  always 
with  a  certain  kindly  mockery  in  all  he  said  to 
them.  He  laughed  at  Bell,  though  she  was  so 
important  a  personage,  just  as  he  laughed  at  his 
little  Peggy :  yet  all  the  while,  as  he  laughed,  he 
remembered  that  to-morrow,  perhaps,  he  might 
laugh  no  more.  One  thing,  however,  that  he  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  do  was  to  send  for  the 
doctor,  to  try  what  medical  skill  might  be  able  to 
suggest  toward  a  little  postponement  of  the  end. 
What  could  the  doctor  do  for  him  ?  there  was 
nothing  the  matter  with  him.  He  was  only 
drowsy,  falling  asleep  without  knowing  why. 
Even  now,  while  Sir  Ludovic  sat  upright  in  his 
chair  and  defied  it,  he  felt  his  eyelids  coming  to- 
gether, his  head  drooping  in  spite  of  himself; 
and  he  felt  a  wondering  curiosity  in  his  mind, 
after  a  momentary  absence  of  this  kind,  whether 
other  people  noticed  it,  or  if  it  was  only  him- 
self who  knew. 

"Do  you  want  anything,  papa?"  said  Mar- 
garet, at  the  door.  She  had  her  hat  in  her  hand, 
and  stood  at  the  door  looking  in,  with  little  more 
than  her  head  visible  and  the  outline  of  her  light 
summer  frock. 

"Going  out,  my  little  Peggy?"  He  raised 
his  head  with  a  start,  and  the  young,  fresh  ap- 
parition seemed  to  float  upon  him  through  some 
door  in  the  visionary  darkness  about,  as  well 
as  through  that  actual  opening  at  which  she 
stood. 

"I  think  so,  papa:  unless  you  want  me.  It 
is  such  a  bonnie  morning,  and  Mr.  Glen  is  going 
to  begin  his  sketch.  He  thinks, "  said  Margaret, 
with  a  little  hesitation,  "that  it  will  be  a  better 
lesson  for  me  to  see  him  drawing  than  doing  the 
straight  lines ;  they  were  not  very  straight,"  she 


added,  with  blushing  candor.     "  I  was  not  clever 
at  them,  though  I  tried — " 

"Mr.  Glen,"  he  said,  with  a  little  annoyance. 
"Mr.  Glen  again;  did  you  not  have  enough  of 
him  yesterday  ?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Margaret,  half  alarmed;  "but 
yesterday  it  was  to  let  you  see  the  pictures,  and 
to-day  it  is  to  learn  me — " 

"I  hope  he  will  not  learn  you — as  you  call  it 
— too  much,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  wish  some- 
body would  learn  you  English.  I  have  a  great 
mind — "  But  here  he  stopped  and  looked  at 
her,  and  seeing  the  alarm  on  Margaret's  face, 
was  melted  by  the  effect  which  ought  to  have 
made  him  stern.  Perhaps  it  might  be  so  short 
a  time  that  she  would  have  any  one  to  indulge 
her.  "Well,  my  little  Peggy!  run,  run  away, 
since  you  wish  it,  and  learn.!' 

He  ought  to  have  been  all  the  more  determined 
because  she  wanted  it  so  much.  This  was  a 
lesson  which  his  daughters  Jean  and  Grace  could 
both  have  taught  him ;  but  an  old  man  with  a 
young  girl  is  proverbially  weak.  It  just  crossed 
his  mind,  though,  that  he  ought  to  write  to  Jean 
and  Grace,  and  invite  them  to  hasten  their  usual 
visit.  On  the  whole,  they  would  take  more  trou- 
ble about  his  little  Peggy  than  Ludovic  could,  to 
whom  the  old  house  would  go.  Sir  Ludovic  had 
no  particular  feeling  one  way  or  another  about 
these  middle-aged  people.  They  were  people 
whom  he  knew  very  well,  of  course,  belonging 
to  the  family ;  but  there  was  no  special  sympa- 
thy between  them  and  himself.  Ludovic  had  a 
large  family,  and  "  a  good  deal  to  do."  It  was 
all  he  could  manage  to  make  his  ends  meet,  to 
keep  up  his  position,  to  do  the  best  he  could  for 
his  own  children.  And  Jean  and  Grace  would 
be  very  fussy,  they  would  worry  his  little  girl  out 
of  her  life ;  but  still  they  would  be  kind  to  her, 
too  kind — no  more  of  her  own  way  for  poor  lit- 
tle Peggy.  He  could  not  but  smile  as  this  as- 
pect of  the  future  rose  before  him ;  they  would 
watch  her  so  that  she  would  be  unable  to  put  in 
a  pin  that  they  did  not  know  of.  And  perhaps, 
in  a  way,  it  would  be  better  for  her ;  perhaps  she 
had  done  too  much  as  seemed  right  in  her  own 
eyes.  This  Eob  Glen,  for  instance — Sir  Ludo- 
vic was  by  no  means  sure  that  he  was  doing 
exactly  as  was  right  about  Rob  Glen.  He 
would  see  to  it,  he  would  speak  to  Bell  about 
it ;  and  with  this  he  floated  away  again  on  his 
own  vague  stream  of  thought,  which  was  not 
thought. 

Margaret  came  in,  however,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, all  aglow  with  enthusiasm  and  delight. 
"  Oh,  papa!"  she  cried,  "it  will  make  the  most 
beautiful  picture ;  he  has  taken  it  from  the  east, 
where  you  can  see  the  house  best,  how  it  is  built. 
I  never  knew  it  was  so  fine  before.  The  tower 
all  round,  with  that  great  ivy-tree,  and  then  the  • 
side  of  the  house  all  in  shade  with  the  big  win- 
dows that  are  shut  up,  the  windows  there,  you 
know,  papa,  that  would  look  out  upon  the  court 
if  you  could  see  through  them ;  and  then  the 
gable,  and  the  round  turret  with  the  stair  in  it, 
and  all  the  little  openings.  But  the  sun  would 
not  stay  in  one  place,"  said  Margaret,  laughing; 
"first  it  sent  the  shadows  one  way  and  then 
another,  and  gave  Mr.  Glen  a  great  deal  of  trou- 
ble. I  understand  now  about  shadows,"  she 
added,  with  a  serious  air  of  importance.  Sir 
Ludovic  had  been  getting  drowsy  again.     Her 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


49 


coming  woke  him  entirely,  with  a  little  pleased 
sensation  of  liveliness  which  roused  his  spirits. 

"  Have  you  been  about  your  picture  all  this 
time?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  papa,  out  there  among  the  potatoes. 
You  could  have  seen  us  from  the  east  window  if 
you  had  liked  to  look.  And  Bell  gave  us  'a 
piece '  at  one  o'clock,  just  as  she  used  to  do  when 
I  was  little.  Often  she  would  give  Rob  a  piece 
too — I  mean  Mr.  Glen,"  said  Margaret,  blushing 
wildly ;  "  I  forgot  he  was  not  a  boy  now." 

"My  little  Peggy,"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  looking 
grave,  "there  are  some  things  which  you  ought 
to  be  very  careful  not  to  forget." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,  papa,"  said  Mar- 
garet, half  alarmed;  "indeed  it  was  not  that: 
I  don't  think  I  ever  could  be  rude  and  hurt  peo- 
ple's feelings  ;  indeed  he  said  it  himself;  he  said 
to  Bell, '  You  often  gave  me  my  lunch  when  I 
was  a  boy,'  and  she  said,  '  Ay,  Rob  Glen,  many's 
the  piece  Eve  given  you,'  I  was  rather  shocked 
to  hear  her,"  Margaret  acknowledged,  "but  he 
only  laughed,  he  was  not  offended  ;  and  so — " 

"And  so  you  did  the  same?  that  was  not 
like  my  little  girl,"  said  Sir  Ludovic ;  "  whatever 
happens,  you  must  always  be  civil.  So  it  is  a 
beautiful  picture,  is  it — as  good  a  picture  of  the 
old  house  as  of  the  old  man  it  belongs  to  ?  Two 
old  things,  my  Peggy,  that  you  will  miss,  that 
you  will  like  to  have  pictures  of  when  you  go 
away." 

"Papa!" — Margaret  looked  at  him  with  sud- 
denly dilated  eyes — "  I  am  not  going  away." 

"Not  till  I  go  first,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  and 
a  smile.  "  But  that  will  not  be  long,  that  will 
come  sometime ;  and  then,  my  little  Peggy,  then 
— why,  you  must  go  too." 

Margaret  came  behind  his  chair  and  put  her 
arm  round  him,  and  laid  down  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  The  old  man  could  have  cried  too. 
He  too  was  sorry  for  what  was  going  to  happen 
— very  sorry ;  but  he  could  not  help  it.  He 
patted  the  arm  that  had  been  thrown  round  him. 
"Poor  little  Peggy,  you  will  miss  the  old  man 
and  the  old  house.  It  is  well  you  should  have 
pictures  of  them,"  he  said. 

"I  want  no  pictures  now,"  cried  Margaret, 
weeping.     " Oh,  are  you  ill — are  you  ill,  papa?" 

"No,  I  am  just  as  usual.  Don't  cry,  my  little 
girl.  Whisht,  now  whisht,  you  must  not  cry ;  I 
did  not  mean  to  vex  you.  But  we  must  not  have 
too  much  of  Rob  Glen  or  Mr.  Glen,  whichever 
is  his  name.  It  might  be  bad  for  him,  my  dar- 
ling, as  well  as  for  you." 

"  I  don't  care  anything  about  him  or  them,  or 
anything,"  cried  Margaret;  "all  the  pleasure  is 
gone  out  of  it.  Will  I  send  for  the  doctor  ?  will 
I  cry  upon  Bell  ?    You  must  be  feeling  ill,  papa." 

"  Will  you  speak  decent  English  ?"  said  her 
father,  with  a  smile ;  her  anxiety  somehow  re- 
stored himself  to  himself.  "  Cry  upon  Bell! 
what  does  that  mean,  my  little  Peggy  ?  You  are 
too  Fifish ;  you  will  not  find  anything  like  that 
in  books,  not  in  Shakspeare,  or  in — " 

"It  is  in  the  Bible,  papa,"  said  Margaret, 
roused  to  a  little  irritation  in  the  midst  of  her 
emotion.  "I  am  quite  sure  it  is  in  the  Bible; 
and  is  not  that  the  best  rote." 

Sir  Ludovic  was  a  little  puzzled.  "Oh  yes, 
certainly  the  best  rule  for  everything,  my  little 
girl ;  but  the  language,  the  English  is  perhaps  a 
little  old-fashioned,  a  little  out  of  use,  a  little—" 


"Papa!  is  it  not  the  Word  of  God  ?" 

Sir  Ludovic  laughed  in  spite  of  himself. 

"It  was  not  first  delivered  in  English,  you 
know.  It  was  not  written  here ;  but  still  there 
is  something  to  be  said  for  your  view.  Now,  my 
Peggy,  run  away." 

But  when  she  left  him  reluctantly,  unwinding 
her  arms  from  his  shoulders  slowly,  looking  at 
him  anxiously,  with  a  new  awakening  of  feeling 
in  her  anxiety  and  terror,  Sir  Ludovic  shook  his 
head,  looking  after  her.  He  was  not  capable  of 
crossing  his  little  girl ;  but  he  had  his  doubts  that 
her  position  was  dangerous,  though  she  was  far 
too  innocent  to  know  it.  Unless  what  he  had 
said  were  to  disgust  her  altogether,  how  could  he 
interfere  to  prevent  the  execution  of  this  picture 
which  it  would  be  so  pleasant  for  her  to  have  af- 
terward ?  "Decidedly,"  he  said  to  himself — 
"  decidedly !     I  must  write  to  Jean  and  Grace." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

As  there  was,  however,  no  more  said  on  this 
subject,  and  Sir  Ludovic  was — probably  having 
shaken  off  something  of  the  heaviness  of  his  mind 
by  putting  it  in  words — as  gay  as  usual  at  dinner 
and  during  the  evening,  the  impression  on  Mar- 
garet's mind  wore  off.  She  had  been  very  un- 
happy for  half  an  hour  or  so,  then  less  wretched, 
then  not  wretched  at  all ;  deciding  that  it  was 
nothing  particular,  that  it  was  only  some  passing 
cloud  or  other,  or  a  letter  from  her  brother,  or 
something  which  had  vexed  him  about  "busi- 
ness," that  grand,  mysterious  source  of  trouble. 
Instead  of  going  out  that  evening,  she  went 
down-stairs  to  where  Bell  sat  in  her  chair  "out- 
side the  door,"  breathing  the  quiet  of  the  even- 
ing. Bell  was  full  of  the  excitement  of  "the 
view."  "It  will  be  equal  to  ony  picture  in  a 
museeum,"  said  Bell.  "To  think  a  creature 
like  that,  that  I  mind  just  a  little  callant  about 
the  doors,  should  have  such  a  power."  Marga- 
ret, however,  did  not  respond  at  first.  Her  mind 
was  still  occupied  with  her  father,  notwithstand- 
ing that  his  demeanor  since  had  wiped  much  of 
the  alarming  impression  away. 

"  Do  you  think  papa  is  quite  well  ?"  she  said. 
' '  Bell,  will  you  tell  me  true  ?  Do  you  think  any- 
thing is  the  matter  with  papa  ?" 

"  The  matter  with  your  papa  ?  is  he  complain- 
ing ?"  said  Bell,  hastily  rising  from  her  chair. 
"  Na,  no  me,  I've  heard  nothing;  that's  just  the 
way  in  this  world,  the  one  that  ought  to  ken  nev- 
er kens.     Miss  Margret,  what  ails  your  papa  ?" 

"  It  was  me  that  was  asking  you,  Bell :  it  was 
not  him  that  complained ;  he  spoke  of — going 
away:  that  some  day  I  would  leave  Earl's-hall, 
and  some  day  he — would  be  gone,"  said  Marga- 
ret, faltering,  large  tears  coming  to  her  eyes. 

"Was  that  a'?"  said  Bell,  sitting  down  again 
on  her  chair.  "Dyin'  is  a  thing  we  a'  think  of 
whiles.  Sir  Ludovic  is  just  in  his  ordinary  so 
far  as  I  ken,  just  as  particular  about  his  dinner. 
No,  no,  my  bonnie  dear,  you  need  not  fash  your- 
sel'  about  what  the  like  of  us  old  folk  says.  We 
say  whiles  mair  than  we  mean  ;  and  other  times 
it  will  come  to  us  to  think  without  any  particu- 
lar occasion  (as  we  aye  ought  to  be  thinking)  of 
our  latter  end." 

"Would  that  be  all,  Bell?'" 


50 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


"That  would  just  be  all.  I  havena  heard  a 
word  of  ony  complaints.  He  takes  his  meals 
aye  in  a  way  that's  maist  satisfactory,  and  John 
he  would  be  the  first  to  see  if  onything  was 
wrang.  Na,  na,  my  bonnie  doo,  you  need  not 
fash  your  head  about  Sir  Ludovic.  He's  hale 
and  strong  for  his  age,  and  runs  nae  risks :  and 
the  Leslies  are  long -living  folk.  We  mustna 
count  upon  that  for  ourselves,"  said  Bell,  serious- 
ly. ' '  I  would  not  say  sae  to  him  ;  for  to  think 
of  our  latter  end  is  what  we  should  a'  bo  doing, 
even  the  like  of  yoursel',  young  and  bonnie,  far 
mair  auld  folk ;  but  auld  Sir  Paitrick  lived  to  be 
ninety.  I  mind  him  as  weel  as  I  mind  my  ain 
faither ;  and  every  Sabbath  in  the  kirk,  rain  or 
shine,  a  grand-looking  auld  man  with  an  ee  like 
a  hawk.  Na,  na,  my  bonnie  dear,  troubles  aye 
sune  enough  when  it  comes ;  we  needna  gang  out 
to  look  for  it ;  but  wait  till  it  chaps  at  the  ha' 
door." 

This  gave  Margaret  great  comfort ;  the  ten- 
sion of  her  mind  relaxed,  and  even  before  Bell 
had  done  speaking  her  young  mistress  had  done 
thinking.  She  went  back  with  a  bound  to  the 
more  agreeable  subject.  "  You  are  to  be  sitting 
here,  Bell,"  she  sail,  "just  here,  when  the  pict- 
ure is  done." 

' '  Bless  my  heart ! "  said  Bell ;  the  change  was 
so  sudden  that  she  scarcely  could  follow  it;  "  the 
picture  ?  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  all  about 
the  picture ;  but,  Miss  Margret,  what  would  ye 
hae  an  auld  wife  for,  sitting  here  on  her  auld 
chair  ?  Something  young  and  bonnie,  like  your- 
sel' now — or  even  Jeanie — would  be  mair  to  the 
purpose  in  a  picture  than  an  auld  wife  like  me." 

"But  it  is  you  I  want,"  said  Margaret,  with 
pretty  obstinacy.  ' '  What  should  I  care  about 
myself?  And  Jeanie  is  very  good,  but  not  like 
you.  It  must  be  you,  Bell,  or  nobody.  It  would 
not  be  natural  not  to  see  you  with  your  stocking 
outside  the  door." 

"  Weel,  weel !"  said  Bell,  with  the  air  of  yield- 
ing, half  against  her  will,  "you  were  aye  a  wilfu' 
miss,  and  would  have  your  way,  and  few,  few 
have  ever  crossed  you.  If  a'  your  life  be  like 
the  past,  and  ye  win  to  heaven  at  the  end,  ye 
may  say  you  were  never  out  of  it ;  for  you've  aye 
had  your  ain  way." 

"  Do  they  get  their  own  way  in  heaven  ?"  said 
Margaret,  half  laughing ;  "  but  I  wish  you  would 
not  speak  of  the  past  like  that,  and  my  life. 
Nothing's  past.  It  has  always  been  just  as  it  is 
now.  Papa  is  only  seventy-five — that  makes  fif- 
teen years  before  he  can  be  as  old  as  grandpapa  ; 
and  by  that  time  I  will  be  old  myself.  Why 
should  there  be  any  change?  I  like  things  to 
be  as  they  are :  you  at  the  door,  and  John  tak- 
ing a  look  at  the  potatoes,  and  papa  reading  in 
the  long  room.  And  the  summer  nights  so  long, 
so  long,  as  if  they  would  never  end." 

"  But  this  ane  is  ending,  and  you  must  go  to 
your  bed,"  said  Bell.  "  The  dew's  no  so  heavy 
10-night  after  the  rain  ;  but  it's  time  to  go  inbye 
and  go  to  all  our  beds ;  it's  near  upon  ten  o'clock. " 

Margaret  lingered  to  look  at  the  soft  bright- 
ness of  the  skies,  those  skies  which  never  seemed 
to  darken.  And  now  that  her  mind  was  relieved, 
there  was  something  else  she  wished  to  look  at 
and  pass  a  final  judgment  upon.  Though  it  was 
ten  o'clock  and  bedtime,  she  could  still  see  all 
there  was  to  see  in  the  little  sketch-book  which 
Rob  had  given  her  to  draw  in.     She  had  made 


a  few  scratches  in  the  intervals  of  her  careful  at- 
tendance upon  the  chief  artist;  and  Rob  had 
looked  with  satisfaction  upon  these  scraps,  and 
said  that  this  was  good  and  that  better.  Mar- 
garet, for  her  part,  surveyed  them  now  with  min- 
gled hope  and  shame.  They  were  not  like  the 
picture  at  all,  though  they  were  intended  to  rep- 
resent the  same  thing ;  but  perhaps  if  she  work- 
ed very  hard,  if  she  gave  her  mind  to  it !  Bell 
did  not  think  very  much  of  them,  as  she  came 
and  looked  over  the  young  lady's  shoulder.  She 
shook  her  head.  "  He's  a  clever  lad,  yon,"  said 
old  Bell,  "  but  I  wish  he  could  learn  you  the 
piany  instead  of  drawing  pictures.  I  canna 
think  but  you  would  come  more  speed."  Mar- 
garet shut  up  her  book  hastily,  with  some  petu- 
lance, not  liking  the  criticism,  and  this  time  she 
did  not  resist  the  repeated  call  to  go  "inbye." 
She  could  not  but  feel  that  a  great  deal  was  want- 
ing before  she  could  draw  like  Rob ;  but  as  for 
the  piano  which  Bell  brought  up  upon  all  occa- 
sions, what  could  Margaret  do?  She  had  tried 
to  puzzle  out  "a  tune  "  upon  the  old  spinnet  in 
the  high  room  with  indifferent  success,  and  this 
had  given  Bell  real  pleasure.  But  then  that 
was  apt  to  disturb  papa ;  whereas  these  scratches 
of  uneven  lines  in  the  sketch-book  disturbed 
nothing  except  her  own  self-esteem  and  ease  of 
mind. 

Margaret  said  nothing  about  it  next  morning, 
learning  prudence  by  dint  of  experience,  but  was 
out  among  the  potatoes  arranging  the  artist's 
seat,  and  the  little  table  to  hold  all  his  require- 
ments, and  the  water  for  his  colors,  in  readiness 
for  his  appearance.  The  whole  house  indeed, 
except  Sir  Ludovic  among  his  books,  who  had 
fallen  back  into  his  ordinary  calm,  externally  at 
least,  and  asked  no  questions,  was  in  agitation 
about  this  picture.  Jeanie,  poor  girl,  kept  in 
the  background  altogether.  She  would  not  even 
come  to  look  at  the  picture,  though  Bell  adjured 
her  to  do  so. 

"What  makes  you  blate,  you  silly  thing?" 
Bell  said.  "It's  no  a  gentleman;  it's  naebody 
but  Rob  Glen,  Mrs.  Glen's  son,  at  Earl's-lee — a 
neebor  lad,  so  to  speak.  You  must  have  been  at 
the  school  with  him.  Gang  forward  and  see 
what's  doing,  like  the  rest."  But  nothing  would 
make  Jeanie  gang  forward.  She  felt  sure  by 
this  time  that  he  did  not  know  she  was  here,  and 
had  begun  to  think  that  there  was  some  mis- 
take, and  that  perhaps  he  was  not  to  blame.  It 
wrung  her  heart  a  little,  peeping  from  her  turret- 
window,  to  see  Miss  Margaret  hovering  about 
him,  looking  over  his  shoulder,  waiting  on  him, 
a  more  graceful  handmaid  than  Jeanie ;  but  at 
the  same  time  a  little  forlorn  pride  was  in  her 
mind.  Miss  Margaret  understood  about  his 
painting,  no  doubt,  and  could  talk  about  things 
that  were  above  her  own  range ;  but  it  was  not 
in  that  stiff  polite  way  that  Rob  would  have  con- 
ducted his  intercourse  with  Jeanie.  She  watch- 
ed them,  herself  unseen,  with  pain,  yet  with  con- 
solation. Not  like  that ;  not  with  so  many  com- 
monplace witnesses — Bell  lingering  about  look- 
ing on,  even  old  John  marching  heavily  across 
the  lines  of  potatoes  to  take  a  look — would  Rob 
have  been  content  to  pass  the  hours  if  she  had 
been  by,  instead  of  Margaret.  But  it  was  well 
for  Rob  to  have  such  grand  friends.  She  would 
not  put  herself  in  the  way  to  shame  him  or  make 
him  uncomfortable.     Jeanie  went  to  her  work 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


51 


magnanimously,  and  with  a  lightened  heart. 
She  would  not  even  sing  as  she  put  the  rooms  in 
order,  lest  her  voice  should  reach  him  through 
the  open  window,  and  he  should  ask  who  it  was. 
She  hid  herself  in  the  depths  of  the  old  house 
that  he  might  not  see  her ;  but  yet  his  presence 
made  a  difference  in  the  atmosphere.  She  could 
not  blame  him  now  that  she  had  seen  him.  And 
she  had  waited  long  already,  and  had  not  lost 
heart.  After  all,  Jeanie  reflected,  nothing  was 
changed  ;  and  insensibly  a  little  confidence  and 
hope  came  back  to  her ;  for  it  was  very  evident, 
for  one  thing,  that  he  did  not  know  she  was  here. 

As  for  Margaret,  she  was  very  happy  in  the 
fresh  exhilaration  of  the  morning  air,  in  the  ex- 
citement of  what  was  going  on,  and  in  the  soci- 
ety of  her  new  friend.  Nobody  had  so  much 
amused  her,  occupied  her,  filled  her  mind  with 
novel  thoughts  as  Rob  Glen.  To  watch  him  as 
he  worked  was  an  unceasing  delight.  He  had 
chosen  his  place  on  the  edge  of  the  little  belt  of 
wood  which  encircled  Earl's-hall.  Had  the  Les- 
lies been  well-to-do  this  would  have  been  a  mere 
flower-garden  for  beauty  and  pleasure ;  but  as 
the  Leslies  were  poor,  it  was  potatoes,  a  more 
profitable  if  less  lovely  crop.  The  fir-trees,  of 
which  the  wood  was  chiefly  composed — for  that 
corner  of  Fife  is  not  favorable  to  foliage — shel- 
tered them  from  the  sun,  which  streamed  full 
upon  the  old  house,  with  all  its  picturesque  ir- 
regularities. The  little  court,  with  its  well  and 
its  old  thorn-tree,  which  lay  so  deep  in  shadow 
in  the  evening,  was  now  full  of  light.  The  door 
standing  open  let  in  a  mass  of  sunshine  into  the 
little  vaulted  passage  which  led  to  the  lower 
story,  and  touched  the  winding  stair  with  an 
edge  of  whiteness;  and  the  huge  old  "ivy-tree," 
as  Margaret  called  it,  the  branches  of  which, 
against  the  wall  which  shut  in  the  court  on  the 
west  side,  were  like  architecture,  great  ribs  of 
wood,  dark,  mossy,  and  ancient,  as  if  they  had 
been  carved  out  of  stone — shone  and  glowed, 
and  sent  back  reflections  from  the  heavy  masses 
of  blunt-leaved  foliage,  which  clad  the  tower 
completely  from  head  to  foot.  Bell's  chair  was 
placed  in  front  of  this  open  door  to  show  where 
the  figure  was  to  be. 

"  But  to  pit  me  there  in  the  forenoon  with 
the  sun  in  my  een,  and  a'  the  work  of  the  house 
lyin'  neglectit !"  said  Bell.  "Well,  I  wat  you'll 
never  see  me  sae." 

"It  might  be  Sunday," suggested  Rob,  "the 
day  of  rest." 

"The  Sabbath's  more  than  a  day  of  rest," 
said  Bell,  reprovingly.  "In  the  morning  all 
right-minded  folk  are  at  the  kirk,  the  only  place 
for  them ;  and  to  gie  a  stranger  to  suppose  that 
me,  I  was  letting  ony  idle  lad  draw  my  picture 
on  the  Lord's-day !" 

"Bell,  Bell!"  cried  Margaret,  horrified. 

But  Rob  could  afford  to  laugh. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said;  "I  am  not  offend- 
ed. Bell  can  call  me  an  idle  lad  if  she  likes — 
so  does  my  mother,  for  that  matter.  She  thinks 
I  might  as  well  swing  on  a  gate  all  day,  as  do 
what  I  am  doing  now." 

"Poor  body!"  said  Bell,  with  a  deep  sigh  of 
sympathy.  "I  feel  for  her  with  a'  my  heart. 
But  you'll  be  wanting  a  piece,"  she  added,  turn- 
ing to  go  in,  "  and,  Miss  Margret,  there's  a  cold 
air  about.  If  I  was  you  I  would  slip  on  a  bit 
of  a  jacket  or  something.     The  earth's  damp 


amang  the  pitawties.  I'll  send  you  out  your 
piece." 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  a  boy  again,  fishing  in 
the  burn,  when  Bell  speaks  of  a  piece,"  said  Rob, 
in  an  undertone. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  angry,"  said  Margaret, 
humbly.  "Bell  always  says  whatever  she 
pleases.  She  does  not  stand  in  awe  of  anybody 
— even  my  sister  Jean,  who  is  a  grand  lady — 
at  least,  I  am  sure  she  thinks  she  is  very  grand ; 
but  Bell  never  minds.  You  must  not  be  angvv, 
Mr.  Glen." 

"Angry!  I  am  pleased.  I  like  to  feel  my- 
self a  boy  again  ;  then  too,  if  you  will  recollect, 
I  had  a  beautiful  little  lady  beside  me,  Miss 
Margaret,  who  would  hold  the  rod  sometimes 
and  watch  for  a  nibble." 

"Don't  call  me  that"  said  Margaret,  with 
momentary  gravity.  "Yes — a  funny  little  girl 
in  a  sun-bonnet.  How  glad  I  used  to  be  when 
you  caught  anything!  It  was  not  very  often, 
Mr.  Glen." 

"Not  at  all  often,  Miss  Margaret;  and  some- 
times you  would  take  off  your  little  shoes,  and 
dabble  your  little  white  feet  in  the  water — how 
white  they  were!  I  remember  thinking  the 
fishes  would  bite  just  to  get  nearer,  just  to  have 
a  sight  of  them." 

"Indeed  the  fishes  were  not  so  silly,"  cried 
the  girl,  blushing,  and  half  affronted,  but  too 
shy  to  venture  on  showing  her  offence.  In  such 
matters  as  this  Rob's  gentleman-breeding  failed 
him.  He  did  not  know  in  what  he  had  gone 
wrong.  "The  sun  is  changing  already,"  she 
said,  hurriedly;  "have  you  got  your  shadows 
right,  Mr.  Glen  ?  I  think  you  will  soon  want 
the  umbrella. " 

"Not  yet," he  said;  "I  can  work  for  anoth- 
er hour ;  but  here  is  old  John  interfering  with 
my  foreground.  Is  this  the  '  piece  ?'  It  is  not 
so  simple  as  that  you  used  to  share  with  me  on 
the  burn-side." 

"It  is  a  picnic,"  said  Margaret,  with  a  little 
awe,  as  John  appeared,  slowly  progressing  among 
the  potatoes,  with  a  white-covered  tray.  John's 
approach  was  a  solemnity  under  any  circum- 
stances, but  across  the  long  lines  of  potatoes  it 
was  still  more  imposing. 

"You're  to  pit  that  on,  Miss  Margaret,"  he 
said,  after  he  had  set  down  his  burden,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  handing  to  her  the  little  gray 
jacket  which  he  carried  over  his  arm. 

"  But  it  is  not  cold.  I  don't  want  it,  the  sun 
is  shining;  and,  John,  will  you  bring  the  big 
umbrella,  the  great  big  one  with  the  heavy  han- 
dle, to  shelter  Mr.  Glen  ?" 

"She  said  you  were  to  pit  it  on.  I  maun  fin- 
ish one  errant  afore  I  begin  anither,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  She  said  there  was  a  cauld  air,  and 
that  yon  were  to  pit  it  on." 

"I  will  when  I  am  cold.  Oh,  tell  Bell  she 
has  sent  us  a  great  deal  too  much.  Chicken 
and  cake,  and  white  bread  and  cheese  —  and 
jam !"  The  last  pleased  the  critic,  and  subdued 
her  remonstrance.  "But  it  is  too  much.  I 
would  like  a  little  milk  instead  of  the  wine." 

"She  said  the  wine  was  better  for  ye,"  said 
the  old  man ;  ' '  and  she  said  you  were  to  pit 
that  on." 

"Oh,  John!  you  are  worse,  you  are  a  great 
deal  worse  than  Bell  is.  You  never  will  hear 
any  reason.     She,  if  one  speaks  to  her,  one  can 


52 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


make  her  see  what  is  sense,"  cried  Margaret, 
half  crying;  "but  you,  you  are  a  great  deal 
worse — you  are  tyrannical ! " 

"I  am  doing  what  I'm  bid,"  said  John. 
"It's  no  me.  Do  I  ken  when  you  should  pit 
on  your  jaicket  and  when  you  should  pit  it  off? 
But  she  said  you  were  to  pit  that  on." 

"And  Bell  is  a  very  sensible  woman,"  said 
Rob.  "It  is  cold  this  morning  after  the  rain ; 
and,  John,  I  hope  you  will  tell  her  that  her  pro- 
vision is  noble.  I  never  saw  such  a  '  piece '  be- 
fore." 

John  made  no  reply.  He  gave  a  glance  of 
surly  disdain  at  the  interloper.  What  had  Rob 
Glen  to  do  here,  beside  "our  young  leddy?" 
"And  me  to  wait  upon  him — set  him  up !"  the 
old  man  grumbled  to  himself  as  he  went  back 
grimly  to  the  house,  having  seen  one,  at  least, 
of  his  orders  fulfilled.  There  were  points  upon 
which  John  was  proud  to  think  he  himself  was 
"maister  and  mair;"  but  on  ordinary  domestic 
occasions  he  was  content  to  accept  the  role  of 
executor,  and  see  that  his  wife's  behests  were 
carried  out. 

Margaret,  in  her  gray  jacket  (which  was  not 
unacceptable,  after  all),  went  away  from  Rob's 
side  and  opened  her  sketch-book.  She  did  not 
choose  to  be  laughed  at,  which  she  felt  to  be 
possible,  and  it  was  time  for  her  to  try  that  gable 
again,  which  had  eluded  her  so  often.  To  jump 
at  the  outline  of  a  rugged  Scotch  gable,  after 
having  proved  your  incapacity  to  draw  a  straight 
line,  was,  perhaps,  a  bold  proceeding ;  and  there 
was  a  perplexing  little  round  of  masonry  pene- 
trated by  slits  of  little  windows,  and  giving  light, 
as  Margaret  knew,  to  the  second  little  spiral 
staircase,  the  one  at  the  east  end  of  the  house, 
which  tried  her  ignorance  dreadfully,  but  which 
she  returned  to  notwithstanding,  again  and  again. 
Margaret  was  gazing  up  against  the  sky,  intent- 
ly studying  this,  when  her  eyes  were  caught  by 
a  face  at  the  high  window  looking  down  as  in- 
tently upon  the  group  in  the  sunshine. 

"Ah,  Jeanie!"  she  said,  with  a  nod  and  a 
smile ;  but  Jeanie  took  no  notice  of  the  little 
salutation. 

"Did  you  speak,  Miss  Margaret?"  said  Rob 
Glen,  busy  over  his  drawing,  and  not  looking  up. 

"  I  was  only  nodding  to  Jeanie,"  said  the  girl. 

Jeanie !  Rob  did  not  budge.  It  was  the  com- 
monest of  names ;  there  was  nothing  in  it  to 
rouse  his  special  attention.  And  even  if  he  had 
known  that  it  was  the  one  Jeanie  with  whom  he 
had  some  concern,  would  that  have  made  any 
difference?  He  worked  on  quite  calmly.  But 
Jeanie  withdrew  in  haste,  with  a  pang  for  which 
she  could  not  account.  She  had  seen  and  heard, 
by  the  sound  of  the  voices,  that  something  was 
said  between  them ;  but  Rob  never  looked  up  to 
see  who  it  was  of  whom  Miss  Margaret  spoke. 
When  Jeanie  came  back  to  peep  again,  they 
were  sitting  together  at  the  little  luncheon  Bell 
had  sent  them,  with  much  talking  and  soft  laugh- 
ter, sharing  the  same  meal,  and  reminding  each 
of  humbler  picnic  meals  eaten  together  in  other 
years.  As  they  grew  more  at  ease  with  each 
other,  the  doubtful  taste  of  Rob's  compliments 
ceased  to  offend  Margaret ;  or  perhaps  in  the 
greater  intimacy  of  this  odd  conjunction,  so  ab- 
solutely free,  yet  so  entirely  under  restraint,  pub- 
lic to  all  the  watchful  eyes  that  guarded  her, 
there  was  something  that  made  him  avoid  com- 


pliments. There  is  always  much  that  is  sug- 
gestive in  a  meal  thus  shared  by  two,  with  no  in- 
trusive third  to  break  its  completeness.  A  cer- 
tain romance  infolds  the  laughing  pair ;  the  very 
matter-of-fact  character  of  the  conjunction,  the 
domesticity,  the  homeliness,  increase  their  sense 
of  union.  It  suggests  everything  that  is  in  life. 
The  boy  and  girl  over  their  "piece,"  the  youth 
and  the  maiden  over  their  impromptu  repast : 
what  Avas  it  but  playing  at  honey  -  mooning,  a 
pleasant  mockery,  or  essay  at,  or  caricature  of, 
the  most  serious  conjunction?  Even  Margaret 
felt  a  certain  half  delightful  shyness  of  her  com- 
panion in  this  odd  union,  free  as  her  mind  was 
of  all  embarrassing  thoughts ;  and  as  for  Rob, 
the  suggestion  gave  him  a  thrill  of  pride  and 
pleasure  not  to  be  put  into  words.  Jeanie  stole 
to  the  window  to  look  at  them  again,  while  they 
were  thus  engaged,  and  the  sight  went  to  her 
heart. 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  wouldna  let  them  bide  ower 
lang  philandering,  they  twa,"  said  John.  "I'm 
no  that  sure  that  I  would  have  left  them  there 
ava'.  Like  twa  young  marrit  folk,  the  aue  fore- 
nenst  the  ither — " 

"Hand  your  tongue,  you  ill-thinking  man!" 
cried  Bell,  with  a  half-shriek.  "  How  dare  ye ! 
But  be  a  lassie  the  maist  innocent  that  ever  was 
born,  ye'll  aye  put  it  upon  her  that  she  kens  as 
muckle  as  yoursel'." 

"It's  no  what  she  kens  I'm  thinking  o' :  it's  a' 
instinck,"  said  John.  "A  lad  and  a  lass — they're 
drawn  to  ane  anither ;  it's  nature.  I  wish  it  was 
a  gentleman  that  had  come  this  gate  instead  o' 
that  laud.  Plenty  gentlemen  waste  their  time 
drawing  pictures.  There's  Sir  Claude ;  he's  auld 
and  a  married  man  ?  I  kent  you  would  say  that. 
Was  I  meaning  Sir  Claude  ?  but  he  aye  has  his 
house  fu'  o'  his  ain  kind ;  or  even  if  it  had  been 
Randal  Burnside — yon's  a  lad  that  will  rise  in 
the  world ;  but  whatever  evil  spirit  sent  us  Rob 
Glen—" 

"John,  my  man,  you're  no  an  ill  man,  and  if 
you'll  baud  to  the  tilings  ye  understand — " 

"I  wuss  there  was  one  of  ye  a'  that  under- 
stood that  poor  bairn's  living,  and  what's  to  come 
o'  her,"  said  John.  "Sir  Ludovic,  he's  no  lang 
for  this  world." 

"  He's  just  in  his  ordinar,  and  his  faither  lived 
to  ninety." 

"He's  no  just  in  his  ordinar.  I  havena  likit 
the  looks  of  him  this  month  past ;  and  now  he 
sees  it  himsel'." 

"Lord  bless  us,  man  !"  cried  Bell, in  alarm  ; 
"  and  ye  never  said  a  word  to  me !" 

"  What  good  would  that  have  done  if  I  had  said 
a  word  to  ye  ?  You  canna  keep  out  Death.  If 
he's  coming,  he'll  come,  and  no  be  hindered  by 
you  or  me.  But  now  he's  found  it  out  himsel'. 
Will  I  tell  ye  what  he  said  to  me  no  an  hour 
ago  ?  But  I'll  not  tell  you  ;  maybe  ye  would  think 
it  was  just  naething,  and  pit  your  jokes  on  me." 

"You  may  do  just  what  you  like,"  said  Bell: 
"speak  or  no  speak,  he  seems  just  in  his  ordinar 
to  me." 

"Is  this  like  his  ordinar?"  says  John,  indig- 
nantly. "He  says  to  me  no  an  hour  ago,  'Are 
the  horses  busy,  John?'  he  said;  and  I  says 
(for  it  doesna  do  to  let  on  when  walk's  slack; 
you  never  ken  what  folk  may  take  into  their 
head),  '  Oh  ay,  Sir  Ludovic,'  I  says,  '  they're  aye 
busy.'     'Could  we  have  them  for  the  carriage 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


53 


on  Sunday  ?'  he  says.  '  Weel,  Sir  Ludovic,'  says 
I,  '  it  might  be  sae ;  but  what  would  it  be  for  ? 
Miss  Margret,  she  aye  walks,  and  wouldua  thank 
ye  for  ony  carriage ;  and  the  ither  lcddies,  they're 
no  here.'  Then  he  strikes  his  stick  on  the  floor. 
'  Can  I  have  the  carriage  on  Sunday  ?'  he  cries, 
him  that's  aye  so  quiet.  Aweel !  that's  a' ;  and 
if  that  doesna  prove  that  he's  been  turning  many 
a  thing  ower  in  his  mind." 

"  Was  it  to  gang  to  the  kirk  ?"  said  Bell,  some- 
what struck  by  awe ;  "he  hasna  been  at  the 
kirk  this  year  or  more." 

"  I  tellt  ye  sae,"  said  John ;  "  and  Sir  Ludo- 
vic, he's  no  man  to  make  a  careless  end.  He'll 
do  all  decently  and  in  order.  He'll  no  let  the 
minister  think  he's  neglectit.  Ye '11  give  me  out 
my  best  claes,  as  if  it  was  a  funeral.  I  ken  what 
he  means,  if  naebody  else  does ;  and  syne  what 
is  to  become  of  that  bairn  ?" 

"Oh,  man,  haud  your  tongue,  haud  your 
tongue,"  cried  Bell.  "Sir  Ludovic!  that  has 
aye  been  so  steady  and  so  weel  in  health.  I  can- 
na  credit  what  you  say.  Your  best  claes !  Put 
on  your  bonnet,  mair  like,  and  gang  and  bid  the 
doctor  come  this  way,  canny,  the  morn's  morn- 
ing, without  saying  a  word  to  anybody.  That's 
the  thing  for  you  to  do.  And  now  I'll  send  that 
laud  away,"  she  added,  briskly.  This  was  a  lit- 
tle outlet  to  her  feelings  ;  and  to  do  Bell  justice, 
she  was  glad  to  have  a  moment  alone  after  hear- 
ing this  alarming  news. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  doctor  came,  very  careful  to  explain  that 
he  had  come  to  call  out  of  friendship  only,  be- 
cause it  was  so  long  since  he  had  seen  Sir  Ludo- 
vic. But  he  could  perceive  nothing  to  justify 
John's  alarm.  Sir  Ludovic  was  glad  to  see  the 
neighbor  who  was  more  intelligent  than  most  of 
his  neighbors,  and  with  whom  he  could  have  a 
little  talk.  The  doctor  was  a  plain  man  of  home- 
ly Scotch  manners  and  speech  ;  but  he  knew  all 
about  the  county  and  everybody  in  it,  and  was 
not  unacquainted  with  books.  Sir  Ludovic,  who 
was  glad  to  be  delivered  from  himself,  and  who 
found  it  easier  to  escape  from  the  prospect  which 
oppressed  him,  by  means  of  society  than  in  any 
other  way,  detained  the  doctor  as  long  as  he 
could,  and  listened  with  much  more  patience  than 
usual  to  the  gossip  of  the  parish,  and  smiled  at 
the  jokes  which  Dr.  Hume  carried  about  from 
patient  to  patient  to  "give  the  poor  bodies  a 
laugh,"  he  said. 

"Come  back  again  soon,"  the  old  man  said, 
accompanying  his  visitor  to  the  door.  The  doc- 
tor was  pleased,  for  he  had  seen  Sir  Ludovic  much 
less  complaisant.  He  stepped  into  the  vaulted 
kitchen  before  he  left  the  house,  to  tell  Bell  what 
he  thought. 

"  I  see  no  difference  in  him,"  said  Dr.  Hume  ; 
"he's  an  old  man.  We  are  none  of  us  so  young 
as  we  once  were,  Bell ;  and  an  old  man  cannot 
live  forever.  He's  bound  to  get  an  attack  of 
bronchitis  or  something  else  before  long,  and  to 
slip  through  our  fingers.  But  I  see  nothing  to 
be  alarmed  at  to-day.  There's  a  little  bit  of  a 
vacant  look  in  his  eyes  ;  but,  Lord  bless  us !  many 
of  us  have  that  all  our  lives,  and  never  die  a  day  the 
sooner.     He  tells  me  the  ladies  are  expected — •" 


"Na,but  that's  news,  doctor!  "said  Bell ;  "the 
ladies!  it's  no  their  time  for  three  months  yet, 
the  Lord  be  thanked,  and  I've  never  heard  a 
word." 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor, "  now  you're  warned, 
and  you  can  take  your  measures  accordingly. 
He  certainly  said  they  were  coming.  They're 
no  the  wisest  women  on  the  face  of  the  earth ; 
but  still,  if  you  are  anxious,  it  would  be  a  com- 
fort, do  you  not  think  so,  to  have  some  of  the 
family  in  the  house  ?" 

"Ye  dinna  ken  our  ladies,  doctor — ye  dinna 
ken  our  ladies,"  said  Bell. 

"Atweel,  I  ken  a  heap  of  ladies,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  laugh.  He  liked  a  joke  at  wom- 
en when  it  was  to  be  heard.  "One's  very  like 
another ;  but  if  it  was  only  for  his  little  Peggy, 
as  he  calls  her,  I  should  think  he  would  be  glad 
to  have  his  daughters  here." 

"He's  no  a  bit  glad,  no  more  nor  the  rest  of 
us — nor  Miss  Margaret  either,"  said  Bell;  and 
it  was  with  a  clouded  countenance  that  she  saw 
the  doctor  mount  his  horse  at  the  door  of  the 
court.  And  when  John  came  in  to  ask  what 
Dr.  Hume  thought,  she  gave  him  an  answer 
which  was  full  of  sorrowful  impatience.  "He 
said  nothing  it  was  any  pleasure  to  hear,"  said 
Bell,  and  it  was  only  later  that  she  unbosomed 
herself  of  her  vexation.  "He  says  there's  noth- 
ing wrong ;  and  syne  he  goes  away  telling  me 
that  the  ladies  are  coming,  and  that  it  will  be  a 
comfort  to  have  some  of  the  family  in  the  house. 
That  means  that  a's  wrong,  so  far  as  I'm  equal 
to  judging.  Sir  Ludovic  in  his  bed  wi'  a  long 
illness  and  the  ladies  here !" 

Bell  flung  up  her  hands  with  a  groan ;  the 
very  idea  was  too  much  for  her ;  but  John  was 
obstinate  in  his  preconceived  certainty. 

"Na,"  he  said,  "Sir  Ludovic  will  no  have  a 
long  illness.  He'll  just  fail,  just  in  a  moment; 
that's  what  he'll  do.  If  I  dinna  ken  him  better 
than  a  dizzen  doctors,  it  would  be  a  wonder — me 
that  have  been  his  body-servant  these  twenty 
years." 

"I  maun  gang  up  the  stair  and  see  for  my- 
sel',"  said  Bell.  She  tied  on  her  clean  apron 
with  decision,  and  could  not  quite  banish  from 
her  countenance  the  look  of  a  person  who  would 
stand  no  nonsense,  who  was  not  to  be  taken  in 
— but  whose  inspection  would  be  final.  And 
Sir  Ludovic  was  pleased  to  see  Bell  too.  He 
was  not  annoyed  to  be  disturbed.  He  turned 
toward  her  with  a  vague  smile,  and  gave  his 
book  a  scarcely  perceptible  push  away  from  him. 
This  little  action  made  Bell's  heart  sink,  as  she 
confessed  afterward.  She  would  much  rather 
have  seen  him  impatient,  and  been  requested  to 
cut  her  errand  short.  On  the  contrary,  her  mas- 
ter was  not  displeased  to  talk.  He  let  her  tell 
him  about  the  drawing  which  was  still  going  on, 
and  her  own  wonder  that  one  who  had  been  the 
other  day  "a  callant  about  the  doors"  should 
possess  such  a  wonderful  gift. 

' '  Callants  about  the  doors  are  very  apt  to  sur- 
prise us  as  they  grow  up,"  Sir  Ludoviu  said, 
"and  Rob  Glen  is  certainly  clever;  but  you 
must  not  let  him  lose  his  time  here.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  I  cannot  afford  to  buy  his  picture, 
Bell." 

"  But  maybe  the  ladies  would  do  it,  Sir  Lu- 
dovic," said  Bell,  seeing  an  opening;  "maybe 
the  ladies  would  like  a  picture  of  the  auld  house 


54 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


—though  me  at  the  door  (as  Miss  Margret  will 
have  me)  would  be  a  drawback.  I  hear  from 
the  doctor,  Sir  Ludovic,  that  you're  expecting 
the  ladies?  I  didna  think  it  was  near  their 
time." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  "I  wrote, 

but  the  letter  has  never  been  posted.     If  you 

had  not  spoken  I  should  have  forgotten  all  about 

it.      Bell,  I  thought  they  might  come  a  little 

f      sooner." 

"It's  very  true,"  said  Bell,  with  a  grave  coun- 
tenance, "that  it's  bonnie  weather;  and  when 
they  were  here  last,  in  September,  we  had  noth- 
ing but  wind  and  rain  ;  but  for  a'  that,  when  la- 
dies have  made  their  plans,  it's  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  to  change  them,  and  it's  aye  in  Septem- 
ber they  come.  Do  you  no  think,  Sir  Ludovic, 
they  would  like  it  better  if  you  let  them  come  at 
their  ain  time  ?" 

"Do  you  suppose  they  would  think  it  a  trou- 
ble, Bell  ?"  Sir  Ludovic  had  written  his  letter  as 
a  matter  of  duty  for  his  little  Peggy's  sake ;  but 
he  was  not  disinclined  to  get  out  of  it,  to  allow 
a  feasible  reason  for  not  sending  it,  if  such  a  one 
should  present  itself;  for  he  did  not  anticipate 
the  arrival  of  his  daughters  with  any  pleasure. 

"Weel,  Sir  Ludovic,  you  see  they've  all  their 
plans  made.  They're  awfu'  leddies  for  plans. 
You  ken  yoursel'  it's  a'  laid  out  every  day  wliat 
they're  to  do ;  and  Mrs.  Bellingham,  she  canna 
bide  being  put  out  o'  her  way." 

"That's  true,  Bell,  that's  very  true,"  said  Sir 
Ludovic,  suddenly  remembering  how  his  eldest 
daughter  received  any  interference  with  her  proj- 
ects. "I  am  very  glad  you  reminded  me," 
said  the  old  man  ;  "after  all,  perhaps,  I  had  bet- 
ter let  things  take  their  course.  I  thought  it 
might  be  better,  whatever  happened,  to  have  them 
here  ;  but,  as  you  say,  Jean  does  not  like  any  in- 
terference with — I  think  I  will  keep  my  letter  to 
myself,  after  all." 

"And  nothing's  going  to  happen  that  I  ken 
of,  Sir  Ludovic.     We  are  all  in  our  ordinar." 

"  That  is  very  true,  too,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  ; 
"and  now  you  can  go  away  and  tell  John  to 
bring  me  my  wine  and  my  biscuit.  The  doctor 
and  you  together  have  wasted  my  morning." 
He  drew  his  book  toward  him  again  as  he  dis- 
missed her.  This  was  the  only  "good  sign" 
that  Bell  saw  in  her  master ;  and  her  face  was 
so  grave  when  she  went  down-stairs  that  John 
paused  in  his  preparation  for  his  master's  simple 
luncheon  with  a  sombre  triumph. 

"Aweel?  You'll  not  tell  me  I'm  an  auld 
fule  again,"  John  said. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  you're  an  auld  raven,  a 
prophet  o'  evil,"  said  his  wife,  with  vehemence. 
"Gang  up  the  stairs  this  moment  and  gie  the 
maister  his  drop  o'  wine ;  he's  crying  for  that 
and  his  biscuit,  and  there  he  might  sit,  and  you 
never  take  the  trouble  to  gang  near  him.  Oh 
ay!"  said  Bell,  dreamily — "oh  ay  !  The  bairn 
divined  it,  and  the  auld  man  saw  it,  and  the  doc- 
tor sees  it  too,  though  he  winna  say  sae ;  and 
Bell's  the  last  to  ken !  In  our  ordinar,  just  in 
our  ordinar!  but  them  that  has  een  can  see  the 
end." 

However,  though  this  foreboding  gathered 
force  by  the  adhesion  of  one  after  another,  it  was 
not  as  yet  any  more  than  a  foreboding,  and  the 
days  went  on  very  quietly  without  any  new 
event.     The  next  Sunday,  on  which  Sir  Ludovic 


had  intended  to  go  to  church,  was  very  wet,  and  it 
was  not  until  a  fortnight  after  his  first  announce- 
ment of  his  intention,  that  the  old  carriage  was 
at  last  got  out,  and  the  horses,  which  had  been 
making  themselves  useful  in  the  farm,  harnessed. 
They  were  not  a  very  splendid  or  high-spirited 
pair,  as  may  be  conceived,  but  they  answered 
the  purpose  well  enough.  It  was  a  true  summer 
Sunday,  the  sunshine  more  warm,  the  air  more 
still,  than  on  any  other  day.  The  roses  were 
fading  off  the  hedge-rows,  the  green  corn  was 
beginning  to  wave  and  rustle  in  the  fields ;  the 
country  groups  that  came  from  afar  on  every 
visible  road,  not  all  to  the  kirk  on  the  hill  (for 
there  was  a  Free  Church  in  the  "laigh  toun," 
not  to  speak  of  "the  chapel,"  which  was  Bap- 
tist, and  had  a  dozen  members,  like  the  Apos- 
tles), were  sprinkled  with  light  dresses  in  honor 
of  the  season,  and  all  was  still  in  the  villages 
save  for  this  gathering  and  animated  crowd. 
The  big  old  coach,  with  its  old  occupant,  called 
forth  much  excitement  in  the  Kirkton.  Car- 
riages and  fine  people  had  failed  to  the  parish 
church. 

Perhaps  it  is  one  of  the  penalties  which  Scot- 
land has  paid  for  being  no  longer  unanimous, 
and  dividing  herself  into  different  camps,  that 
her  gentry  should  have  deserted  that  old  centre 
of  local  life,  and  left  the  National  Church  which 
has  played  so  large  a  part  in  Scotch  history.  It 
is  one  of  the  least  sensible  as  well  as  the  least 
lovely  features  of  modern  Scotland.  Of  all  the 
squires  in  this  division  of  Fife,  not  one  but  old 
Sir  Ludovic  united  in  the  national  worship.  The 
others  drove  miles  away  to  the  "English  Chap- 
el" at  the  county  town,  which  was  gay  with 
their  carriages  and  finery,  like  the  corresponding 
"  English  Chapel  "  in  Florence  or  Rome  ;  very 
like  it,  indeed,  in  more  ways  than  it  is  necessary 
to  mention.  Gentility  poured  thither,  even  the 
rich  shopkeepers,  or  at  least  the  manufacturers 
of  the  second  generation  ;  for  to  belong  to  the 
English  Church  gave  a  kind  of  brevet  rank.  Sir 
Ludovic,  perhaps,  was  too  indifferent  to  change 
his  ways  in  his  old  age ;  and  then  neither  he  nor 
the  Avorld  required  any  outward  proof  that  he 
was  a  very  superior  person.  Why  it  was  that 
he  had  set  his  mind  on  going  to  church  at  all 
after  this  long  gap  in  his  attendance  it  would  be 
hard  to  tell.  He  could  not  have  told  himself. 
It  was  like  a  last  visit  to  court,  a  last  parade  to 
an  old  soldier,  a  thing  to  be  done  as  long  as  he 
could  calculate  upon  his  time,  before  the  days 
had  arrived,  which  he  could  see  advancing,  when 
he  would  no  longer  have  command  of  his  own 
movements. 

Sir  Ludovic  felt  a  sensation  of  relief  when  he 
had  fairly  set  out.  Of  this  thing,  then,  which 
he  had  determined  to  do,  he  was  not  to  be  balk- 
ed. He  was  to  have  power  and  time  to  accom- 
plish this  last  duty.  The  burial-place  of  the  Les- 
lies was  close  to  the  east  end  of  the  church,  the 
head  of  the  vault  touching  the  old  chancel,  a  rel- 
ic of  the  times  when  to  be  near  that  sacred  spot 
in  the  morning  quarter,  "toward  the  sunrising," 
was  to  be  doubly  safe.  Here  Sir  Ludovic  stood 
for  a  moment,  looking  less  at  the  familiar  grave 
than  at  the  still  more  familiar  landscape,  the  low 
hills  round  the  horizon  on  three  sides,  the  glim- 
mer of  the  sea  that  filled  up  the  circle,  the  broad 
amphitheatre  of  fertile  fields  that  swept  around. 
He  did  not  care  to  turn  from  that  wide  and  lib- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


55 


eral  prospect,  all  sweet  with  summer  air  and 
warm  with  sunshine,  to  the  heavy  mass  of  stone 
that  shut  in  the  remains  of  his  kindred.  He 
gave  one  glance  at  it  only,  as  he  walked  past, 
though  it  was  that  spot  he  had  chosen  to  view 
the  landscape  from.  A  faint  smile  came  upon 
his  face  as  he  looked  at  it.  There  was  his  place 
waiting  and  ready,  and  soon  to  be  filled.  He 
asked  himself,  with  a  little  thrill  of  strange  sen- 
sation, whether  he  would  feel  the  breezes,  such 
as  were  always  rife  in  Stratheden,  or  have  any 
consciousness  of  the  landscape,  when  he  lay 
there,  as,  by -and -by,  he  should  be  lying.  He 
walked  very  steadily,  yet  with  a  nervous  tremor, 
of  which  he  himself  was  conscious,  if  nobody 
else,  and  kept  his  hand  upon  Margaret's  shoul- 
der, scarcely  to  support  him — that  was  not  nec- 
essary— but  yet  to  give  him  a  little  prop.  Some 
of  the  people,  the  elders  and  the  farmers  who 
felt  themselves  sufficiently  important,  threw  them- 
selves in  his  way,  and  took  off  their  hats  with 
kindly  respect. 

"I'm  real  glad  to  see  yon  out,  Sir  Ludovic," 
and,  "I  hope  you're  well  this  fine  morning,  Sir 
Ludovic,"  they  said.  The  old  man  took  off  his 
hat  and  made  them  all  a  sweeping  bow. 

"  Good  -  morning  to  you  all,  my  friends,"  he 
said,  and,  with  a  little  additional  tremor,  hurried 
into  church,  to  be  safe  from  all  these  greetings. 
The  church,  as  we  have  already  said,  was  a 
monstrous  compound,  such  as  perhaps  only  Scot- 
land could  produce  nowadays.  The  old  door 
opened  into  a  noble  but  gloomy  old  Norman 
church,  very  small,  but  lofty  and  symmetrical, 
in  the  corners  of  which  some  old  monuments, 
brass  denuded  of  their  metal  (if  that  is  not  a 
bull),  rude  in  Northern  art,  but  ancient,  and  look- 
ing, by  dint  of  their  imperfections,  more  ancient 
than  they  were  —  were  piled  together.  In  the 
little  round  basement  of  the  tower,  where  there 
had  been  a  tiny  chapel  behind  the  altar  in  the 
old  days,  a  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  stood  pulling 
the  rope,  which  moved  a  cracked  and  jingling 
bell ;  and  the  vast  chancel  arch  opposite  was 
blocked  up  with  a  wooden  partition,  through 
which,  by  means  of  a  little  door,  you  entered  the 
new  painted  and  varnished  pews  of  the  modern 
building,  which  Sir  Claude  Morton  had  built  for 
the  parish.  The  parish  was  quite  contented,  be 
it  allowed,  and  Sir  Claude  went  to  the  English 
Chapel,  and  did  not  have  his  sins  brought  home 
to  him  every  Sunday ;  and  among  the  higher 
classes  you  may  be  sure  that  it  was  the  old  Re- 
formers and  John  Knox  who  were  supposed  to 
be  in  fault,  and  not  an  enlightened  connoisseur 
like  Sir  Claude,  who  did  so  much  for  the  art-in- 
struction of  the  world  away  from  home.  Sir 
Claude  was  the  chief  "  heritor  "  of  the  parish, 
for  the  lands  of  the  Leslies  had  dwindled  almost 
to  nothing. 

We  will  not  affirm  that  Sir  Ludovic  would 
have  done  much  better,  but  then,  at  least,  he 
was  not  a  connoisseur.  He,  for  his  part,  made 
no  reflections  upon  this  as  he  went  in,  and  placed 
himself  in  the  great  square  pew,  the  only  one  of 
the  kind  in  the  new  church,  all  lined  with  red 
cloth,  and  filled  with  chairs  instead  of  benches, 
which  marked  his  own  importance  in  the  parish. 
He  thought  of  the  difference  between  the  old 
and  the  new  without  troubling  himself  about 
art,  and  with  a  little  shiver  acknowledged  that 
the  light  and  air  and  brightness  of  the  wooden 


barn  were  more  comfortable  than  the  stately 
grace  and  dampness  of  the  old  building,  which 
was,  like  himself,  chilled  and  colorless  with  age. 
But  how  many  generations  of  old  men  like  him- 
self had  passed  under  the  great  gray  arch  that 
"  swore,"  as  the  French  say,  at  the  vulgar  new 
walls !  A  lifetime  of  threescore  and  fifteen  years 
was  as  nothing  in  the  history  of  that  ancient 
place.  And  there  it  would  stand  for  genera- 
tions more,  watching  them  come  and  go —  It, 
and  he  with  it,  lying  so  close  under  the  old 
stones.  Would  it  be  anything  to  Ludovic  Les- 
lie, once  placed  there,  who  came  and  who  might 
go  ?  This  thought  gave  him,  as  it  always  did, 
a  kind  of  vertigo  and  swimming  of  the  brain. 
To  fancy  one's  self — one's  self,  not  another,  as 
insensible  to  everything  in  life — 

"Whirled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 
With  rocks,  and  stoues,  and  trees." 

Is  that  possible?  Sir  Ludovic  tried,  but  could 
not  do  it.  It  made  his  head  swim  round  and 
round. 

All  the  time  the  people  were  taking  their 
places,  clattering  in  with  much  noise,  and  per- 
haps not  much  reverence.  Ordinarily  they  wait- 
ed about,  the  men  at  least,  until  the  bell  stopped 
and  the  hour  had  struck.  But  perhaps  out  of 
respect  to  old  Sir  Ludovic,  who  had  not  been 
there  for  so  long,  and  who  might  never — who 
could  tell?  —  be  there  again,  for  he  was  an  old 
man,  they  came  in  after  him,  making  a  great 
noise,  shutting  and  fastening  after  them  the 
doors  of  their  pews.  And  then  Dr.  Eurnside 
walked  into  the  pulpit,  solemnly  preceded  by 
the  beadle  with  the  big  Bible,  and  the  service 
began.  Neither  Sir  Ludovic  nor  his  daughter 
paid  any  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  singing 
of  the  old  metrical  psalms  was  very  rough  and 
tuneless.  Margaret  did  not  know  much  better, 
having  had  no  training,  and  heard  no  music ; 
and  Sir  Ludovic,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  full 
of  his  own  thoughts,  and  paid  but  little  atten- 
tion. He  was  scarcely  caught  even  by  the  words 
of  that  Psalm,  known  from  their  cradles  to  all 
Scots,  which  Dr.  Burnside  hastily,  and  with 
some  perturbation,  on  hearing  of  Sir  Ludovic's 
presence,  had  changed  for  the  one  before  chosen. 

Dr.  Burnside  had  not  had  it  in  his  power  for 
a  long  time  now  to  set  Sir  Ludovic's  duty  before 
him.  And  when  his  wife  brought  him  the  news 
that  the  old  carriage  from  Earl's-hall  had  pass- 
ed, with  the  Leslies  in  it,  the  minister  had  a  mo- 
ment of  great  excitement.  His  sermon  had  not 
been  at  all  adapted  for  such  an  occasion,  but 
had  been  addressed  very  generally  to  the  parish 
world  about  its  commonplace  sins  of  gossip  and 
fibbing,  and  such-like.  Dr.  Burnside  ran  to  his 
writing-table  and  hastily  chose  a  sermon  of  a 
different  complexion.  He  had  preached  it  be- 
fore, but  he  had  a  great  and  consoling  conscious- 
ness that  nobody  paid  much  attention,  and  cer- 
tainly Sir  Ludovic  had  never  heard  it.  It  was 
about  the  conclusion  of  life.  He  did  not  think 
of  it  as  touching  himself,  and  never  had  known 
the  tremulous  attempt  to  realize  that  conclusion 
which  made  Sir  Ludovic's  head  turn  round  ;  but 
he  knew  that  an  old  man  ought  to  think  of  his 
latter  end,  and  that  it  was  of  great  importance 
not  to  neglect  an  opportunity  that  might  not  oc- 
cur again. 

"  Will  you  tell  the  precentor,  my  dear,  to  wait 


5G 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


a  moment.  I  have  some  changes  to  make,"  the 
Doctor  said,  hastily ;  and  thus  it  was  that  the 
Psalm  was  altered,  and  the  one  now  chosen  sung 
to  an  unusual  tune,  which  had  been  intended  for 
the  former  one,  and  which  put  the  rude  singers 
out — 

"Yea,  thongh  I  walk  in  death's  dark  vale, 
Yet  will  I  fear  none  ill ; 
For  Thou  art  with  rue,  aud  Thy  rod 
And  staff  rue  comfort  still," 

sang  the  rough,  rural  voices.  They  sang  as  if 
the  object  of  their  worship  was  far  away  at  sea, 
and  required  a  hearty  shout  to  catch  his  ear. 
And  Sir  Ludovic  did  not  pay  much  attention. 
He  had  known  the  words  by  heart  ever  since  he 
knew  anything,  which  made  them  less  striking 
to  him.  Besides,  he  had  no  trouble  on  that 
point ;  he  did  not  doubt  the  rod  and  staff  that 
would  support  him ;  he  wanted  rather  dimly  to 
know  what  sort  of  place  that  dark  valley  was, 
and  what — not  whether  it  was  bliss  or  despair, 
but  what — lay  beyond.  ' 

Dr.  Burnside  preached  his  sermon  with  great 
feeling  and  great  meaning,  so  that  everybody  in 
church  felt  that  it  had  a  bearing  upon  Sir  Ludo- 
vic; but  Sir  Ludovic  himself  did  not  see  it.  He 
propped  himself  in  the  corner  and  listened  re- 
spectfully, sometimes  asking  himself,  however, 
how  Burnside  could  keep  on  so  long,  and  why 
the  fact  of  being  in  the  pulpit  should  bring  twad- 
dle to  the  lips  of  a  reasonable  man.  Once  when 
the  good  Doctor  was  moved  by  his  own  elo- 
quence almost  to  weeping,  Sir  Ludovic  was  quite 
roused  too,  and  sat  more  upright,  and  gave  his 
whole  attention  to  the  speaker ;  but  it  was  rath- 
er with  an  amazed  desire  to  know  what  could 
have  so  much  moved  his  old  friend  than  from 
any  mere  personal  motive.  Even  then  he  could 
not  make  it  out.  He  said  to  himself  that  what 
you  say  yourself  may  possibly  seem  more  strik- 
ing than  what  another  says ;  but  still  he  could 
not  see  what  Burnside  had  to  cry  about.  Not- 
withstanding those  thoughts,  which  were  not  vis- 
ible, Sir  Ludovic  was  a  most  respectful  and  de- 
vout worshipper.  Though  prayer  is  supposed  to 
be  extempore  in  the  Church  of  Scotland,  and  the 
idea  of  reading  their  devotions  out  of  a  book 
would  have  shocked  the  people  beyond  measure, 
yet  Sir  Ludovic  having  gone  to  church  regularly 
for  a  great  many  years,  knew  Dr.  Burnside's 
prayers  by  heart,  and  was  able  to  follow  them 
as  closely  as  if  they  had  been  in  a  prayer-book. 
He  knew  where  and  how  the  habitual  supplica- 
tions would  come.  He  knew  in  what  words  the 
good  minister  would  embody  his  ascriptions  of 
praise.  All  was  familiar  to  him,  as  if  it  had 
been  going  on  forever,  as  if  it  would  never  come 
to  an  end. 

By -and -by  it  was  over,  and  the  people  all 
streamed  out  with  equal  noise  and  no  more  rev- 
erence, putting  on  their  hats  before  they  were 
out  of  church,  and  beginning  to  talk  in  loud 
whispers.  It  was  over  like  everything  else — an- 
other thing  ended — another  something  removed 
between  him  and  the  end.  This  was  the  thought 
that  came  involuntarily  to  the  old  man.  He 
smiled  to  himself,  but  not  with  pleasure,  with  a 
kind  of  amused  pain  or  painful  amusement,  as 
the  little  roll  of  things  to  be  clone  was  worked 
out.  Here  was  another  over  and  done  with, 
though  it  had  begun  only  a  moment  since.  Just 
so  the  philosopher  might  have  watched  the  hours 


stealing  away  that  lay  between  him  and  thaS 
slave  with  the  hemlock,  just  so  noticed  the 
gradual  development  of  the  symptoms  afterward 
— the  beginning  of  the  death  -  cold,  the  rising 
gasp  in  the  throat.  Sir  Ludovic  was  like  Soc- 
rates, yet  with  a  curious  sense  that  it  was  some- 
body else  he  was  watching,  not,  it  could  not  be, 
himself.  He  felt  half  inclined  to  laugh  as  the 
things  to  be  got  through  lessened  in  number; 
and  now  this  church-going  was  over,  which  was 
one  of  the  last  incidents  of  all. 

"Even  though  I  walk  iu  death's  dark  vale, 
Yet  will  I  fear  none  ill." 

No,  no,  not  any  ill ;  but  what  ?  That  was 
the  question ;  and  in  the  mean  time  this  was 
ended  too. 

"I  think  we  may  go  now,  the  crowd  is  gone, 
papa,"  whispered  Margaret;  and  he  assented 
with  a  smile.  They  came  out  again,  once  more 
through  the  fine  Norman  arch,  which  had  been 
there  from  time  immemoi'ial. 

"Just  there,  my  little  Peggy,  is  where  my 
place  will  be,"  he  said,  still  smiling,  pointing  to 
the  wall  of  the  apse,  and  came  out,  with  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  into  the  sunshine,  his 
erect,  delicate  head,  with  its  white  hair,  held  up 
with  unconscious,  gentle  stateliness,  leaning  upon 
the  young  creature  in  her  white  frock — leaning 
only  a  very  little,  rather  for  love  than  for  sup- 
port. A  great  many  people  had  lingered  about 
the  church-yard,  scattered  among  the  graves,  to 
look  at  them.  The  parish  that  day  had  listen- 
ed to  the  sermon  much  less  drowsiby  than  usual. 
They  had  recognized  by  instinct  that  it  was  not 
themselves,  but  Sir  Ludovic,  who  was  addressed, 
and  they  had  all  been  interested  to  hear  what 
the  Doctor  had  to  say  to  Sir  Ludovic.  They 
stood  with  friendly  and  shy  curiosity,  pretending 
to  study  the  tombstones,  to  look  at  him  as  he 
came  out.  It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  been 
there  before,  and  who  could  tell  if  he  would  ever 
be  there  again  ? 

And  the  sight  of  the  pair  touched  the  people. 
An  old  man  leaning  upon  his  child  is  always  a 
touching  sight,  and  Margaret's  pretty,  slim  fig- 
ure, in  her  white  frock,  her  head  raised  to  him, 
a  look  of  wistful  half-anxiety  in  her  eyes,  mixed 
with  her  pleasure  in  having  him  by  her,  made 
a  great  impression  upon  the  kindly  neighbors. 
Some  of  the  women  unfolded  the  handkerchiefs 
which  they  carried  with  their  Bibles  and  put 
them  to  their  eyes.  He  was  "sore  failed" 
since  he  had  been  last  seen  at  the  kirk — failed 
and  frail,  and  no  long  for  this  world.  And  ah, 
how  well  the  Doctor  had  set  his  duty  before  him  ! 
The  father  and  daughter  went  softly  round  the 
east  end  of  the  old  church ;  and  it  was  when 
they  were  passing  the  Leslie  vault  again,  that 
Sir  Ludovic  suddenly  stumbled.  It  was  not  "a 
stroke,"  nor  any  fainting  on  his  part,  as  at  first 
the  trembling  yet  eager  spectators  thought,  but 
only  a  projecting  stone  in  his  way,  against  which 
his  foot  caught.  Margaret  gave  a  cry  of  dis- 
tress. 

"It  is  nothing,  my  Peggy,  nothing,"  said  the 
old  man.  But  the  shock  and  the  shake  affected 
him,  and  he  turned  very  pale,  and  tottered  as  he 
went  on. 

"  Will  he  take  my  arm? — ask  him  to  take  my 
arm,"  said  some  one  close  by.  Sir  Ludovic  did 
not  wait  to  be  entreated ;  he  put  forth  his  hand 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


57 


eagerly  and  grasped  the  strong  young  arm,  which 
he  felt,  without  knowing  whom  it  belonged  to, 
to  be  sustaining  and  steady. 

"That  is  right,  that  is  all  I  want,"  he  said, 
and  walked  along  the  rest  of  the  path  to  the  car- 
riage, leaning  upon  Rob  Glen.  Margaret  was  at 
his  other  side.  He  smiled  at  her,  and  bade  her 
not  be  frightened.  "  This  is  all  I  want,"  he  said, 
leaning  upon  the  young  man.  As  for  Margaret, 
she,  in  her  fright  and  anxiety,,  thought  nothing  of 
the  words  he  was  saying ;  but  who  can  describe 
with  what  a  thrill  the  repeated  assurance  went 
through  the  ambitious  heart  and  glowing  imagi- 
nation of  Rob  Glen  ? 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

There  were  a  great  many  spectators  of  this 
scene  in  the  church-yard.  Mrs.  Burnside,  the 
minister's  wife,  had  been  detained  most  unwill- 
ingly by  some  importunate  "poor  bodies"  from 
the  "laigh  toun,"and  was  hurrying  round  from 
the  other  end  of  the  church,  with  her  son  Randal, 
to  speak  to  "  the  Earl's-hall  family,"  when  Rob 
Glen  thus  made  himself  conspicuous.  There 
were  various  people  who  held  the  opinion  that  he 
had  made  himself  conspicuous,  and  none  more 
than  Mrs.  Burnside,  who  thought  the  group  very 
incongruous.  Margaret  on  one  side,  and  a  young 
country  lad,  Janet  Glen's  son,  on  the  other !  It 
was  quite  out  of  the  question.  But  an  old  man 
was  an  ill  guide  for  a  young  girl.  She  hastened 
round,  calling  Randal  to  follow,  and  reached  the 
gate  just  as  John  was  putting  up  the  carriage 
steps. 

"Margaret,  my  dear  Margaret,  will  you  not 
come  to  the  Manse  and  get  a  glass  of  wine  ?  And, 
Sir  Ludovic,  I  hope  you're  not  hurt.  The  Doc- 
tor will  be  quite  disappointed  if  he  does  not  see 
you." 

Rob  Glen  stood  at  the  carriage-door,  but  Mrs. 
Burnside  took  no  notice  of  him. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sir  Ludovic.  "I'm  not 
hurt ;  but  I've  got  a  shake,  and  the  best  thing  I 
can  do  is  to  get  home.  Tell  the  Doctor  I  will  be 
glad  to  see  him,  very  glad  to  see  him,  whenever 
he  will  come  so  far — with  my  thanks  for  a  very 
good  sermon."  He  smiled,  but  he  was  still  very 
pale,  and  old  John  stood  upon  little  ceremony. 
He  took  his  seat  beside  the  coachman,  and  bade 
him  in  low  tones  "no  to  bide  a  moment  if  it  was 
the  Queen,  but  to  get  hame,  to  get  hame."  The 
consequence  of  this  was  that  the  carriage  was  al- 
ready in  motion  when  Mrs.  Burnside  resumed. 

"  A  glass  of  wine  will  do  you  good,  Sir  Ludo- 
vic ;  a  nd  here's  my  son  Randal.  Margaret,  my 
dear,  you're  not  going  like  this,  without  a  word  !" 
cried  the  Minister's  wife;  but  Margaret  only 
waved  her  hand,  and  said  something  that  was 
inaudible  in  the  rush  of  the  carriage-wheels. 

"I  don't  call  this  civil,"  said  Mrs.  Burnside, 
growing  red.  "  I  cannot  think  it  civil,  Randal, 
either  to  you  or  to  me." 

"  It  was  not  intended  for  incivility,"  said  Rob 
Glen.  "But  Sir  Ludovic  was  shaken.  He  was 
more  shaken  than  you  would  have  thought  pos- 
sible. It  was  the  best  thing  he  could  do  to  get 
home,  and  I  think  I  will  go  and  tell  the  doctor. 
He  has  certainly  grown  much  weaker  within  the 
last  month." 


How  did  Rob  Glen  know  how  Sir  Ludovic 
had  been  for  the  last  month  ?  Mrs.  Burnside 
looked  upon  him  with  a  disapproving  counte- 
nance. He  had  made  himself  a  great  deal  too 
conspicuous.  Janet  Glen's  son,  a  lad  of  no  con- 
sideration !  what  right  had  he  to  put  himself  in 
the  way? 

"Sir  Ludovic  shows  himself  so  little  that 
there's  very  few  can  be  able  to  judge,"  she  said, 
meaning  to  snub  the  forward  young  man.  And 
what  should  Randal  do  but  neutralize  all  her  dig- 
nity by  making  a  step  forward  with  friendly  hand 
outstretched  ? 

"Why  this,"  he  said,  "must  be  Rob  Glen?" 

"Oh  yes,  it  is  Rob  Glen,"  said  his  annoyed 
mother;  while  Rob  accepted  the  overture  gra- 
ciously. Randal  was  a  year  or  two  older  than 
Rob,  and  had  begun  life  in  the  company  of  the 
whole  juvenile  family  at  the  parish  school ;  an 
early  association  which  made  all  his  father's 
parishioners  his  friends.  He  was  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  full  of  high  spirits  and  kindness, 
but  so  shy  that  the  paths  of  society  were  pain 
and  grief  to  him.  He  had  been  absent  for  a 
long  time,  studying  in  Germany,  and  had  but 
lately  returned,  and  taken  his  place  in  Edin- 
burgh, with  every  prospect  of  success  at  the  bar; 
for  he  had  a  family  firm  of  Writers  to  the  Sig- 
net behind  him.  Though  Randal  had  an  old 
boyish  kindness  for  little  Margaret,  her  grown- 
up looks  had  somewhat  disconcerted  him,  and 
it  was  with  more  relief  than  regret  that  he  had 
seen  the  carriage  turn  away.  But  Randal's  shy- 
ness did  not  affect  him  in  respect  to  the  people 
of  the  parish,  to  most  of  whom  his  notice  was  a 
favor;  and,  indeed,  at  this  moment  he  had  no 
idea  that  it  was  anvthing  else  than  an  honor  to 
Rob  Glen. 

"You  may  as  well  tell  your  father,  Randal, 
that  Sir  Ludovic  has  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Burnside, 
with  a  little  nod  to  the  intruder.  "Good-morn- 
ing, Rob ;  I  saw  your  mother,  worthy  woman, 
was  out  this  morning.  I  am  glad  her  cold  is 
better;"  and,  so  saying,  she  went  slowly  away 
toward  the  Manse  in  anything  but  a  tranquil 
state  of  mind.  She  was  not  mercenary,  nor  had 
she  really  engaged  in  any  matrimonial  specula- 
tions for  her  son.  But  he  was  a  young  man, 
she  well  knew,  who  would  be  a  credit  to  every- 
body belonging  to  him ;  and  if  Margaret  and  he 
had  met,  and  if  they  had  taken  a  fancy  to  each 
other,  why  then —  They  had  both  a  little  mon- 
ey ;  indeed,  it  was  generally  known  that  Mar- 
garet had  more  than  a  little;  but  upon  thi9 
point  the  minister's  wife  assured  herself  that 
she  had  no  information  ;  and  they  were  both 
well-born  (for  the  Burnsides  were  as  old  as  any- 
thing in  the  county),  and  it  would  have  been 
very  suitable :  he  a  rising  young  lawyer,  with  a 
good  profession  and  a  good  head,  and  the  best 
of  prospects  before  him.  There  was  no  un- 
worthy scheming  in  her  desire  to  bring  these 
two  perfectly  matched  young  people  together. 
The  question  in  her  eyes  was  not,  was  Randal 
good  enough  for  Margaret  ?  but,  was  Margaret 
good  enough  for  Randal?  But  they  had  played 
together  when  they  were  children,  and  there 
was  nobody  far  or  near  so  like  Margaret  as  Ran- 
dal, so  like  Randal  as  Margaret.  This  was 
what  Mrs.  Burnside  was  thinking,  as  she  walked 
very  gently  toward  the  Manse.  The  children 
and  the  old  women  did  not  courtesy  when  they 


58 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


met  her,  for  such  are  not  the  habits  of  rural 
Scotland ;  but  the  little  things  looked  at  her 
with  shy  smiles,  and  the  women  wished  her 
good -day,  and  were  blithe  to  see  Mr.  Randal 
back.  "And  so  am  I,  Jenny,"  she  said ;  "  more 
glad  than  words  can  say." 

"Eh,  mem,  ye  hae  nae  need  to  say  it ;  a'  the 
kirk,"  said  the  old  woman,  sympathetic,  "could 
see  it  in  your' face."  And  why  should  she  not 
ask  herself,  what  was  the  very  best  thing  to  be 
had — the  fairest  and  the  sweetest  to  get  for  her 
boy?  But  that  intrusive  Rob  Glen  making 
himself  so  conspicuous!  what  was  he,  a  country 
lad,  nobody  at  all,  not  a  gentleman,  to  put  him- 
self in  Randal's  way  ? 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing,  Rob,  all 
these  years  ?  I've  heard  of  you  from  time  to  time ; 
but  I've  been  wandering,  as  you  know,  and  for 
some  time  back  I  know  nothing.  Little  Marga- 
ret Leslie,  I  thought  her  a  child,  and  lo  !  she's  a 
lovely  lady.  I  thought  I  should  have  found  you 
in  the  pulpit  preaching  for  my  father ;  but  here 
you  are,  without  so  much  as  a  black  coat. 
What  has  happened  to  you  ?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Rob.  He  paused  rather 
nervously,  and  looked  at  his  gray  coat,  wonder- 
ing, perhaps,  was  it  the  proper  dress  to  come  to 
church  in,  even  when  you  have  ceased  to  think 
of  being  a  minister.  Randal's  coat  was  black, 
and  he  seemed  to  Rob  a  young  man  of  fashion. 
This  thought  made  him  very  uncomfortable. 
"Indeed  nothing  at  all  has  happened  to  me. 
I  am  a  failure,  Mr.  Burnside.  Your  father  tries 
to  set  me  right ;  but  I  am  afraid  we  don't  even 
agree  as  to  the  meaning  of  words." 

"A  failure?"  said  Randal,  puzzled. 

"Yes;  the  church  is  too  exacting  for  me.  I 
can't  sign  a  creed  because  my  great-grandfather 
believed  it." 

"Ah!  oh!"  said  the  other  young  man.  It 
meant  that  he  had  nothing  to  say  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  did  not  care  to  enter  into  it ;  but  it 
meant  at  the  same  time  the  slightest  tone  of 
disapproval,  a  gravity  which  would  not  smile. 
Randal  thought  a  man  should  stick  to  his  colors, 
whatever  they  were.  "And  what  are  you  doing 
now  ?" 

"  Nothing  ;  idling,  drawing,  dreaming,  losing 
my  time;  absolutely  nothing;"  then  he  added, 
for  he  did  not  want  to  conceal  his  privileges,  "  I 
have  been  busy  for  the  last  fortnight  with  a  pict- 
ure of  Earl's-hall. " 

"Are  you  turning  artist,  then?  I  did  not 
think  the  parish  had  any  such  possession.  I 
hope  I  may  come  and  see  it,"  said  young  Burn- 
side,  wondering  whether  he  might  venture  to  ask 
his  old  school-fellow  to  dinner.  He  would  have 
done  it  instantly  had  he  been  alone.  But  his 
mother  was  not  to  be  trifled  with.  As  he  hesi- 
tated, however,  his  father  joined  him,  coming 
from  the  church. 

"  So  Sir  Ludovic  has  gone,"  said  the  doctor  ; 
"I  expected  he  would  have  waited  to  see  you, 
Randal,  and  perhaps  gone  on  to  the  Manse  ;  but 
he  is  looking  frail,  and  perhaps  he  was  wearied. 
It's  an  unusual  exertion  for  him,  a  very  unusual 
exertion.  Good-day,  Rob ;  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
have  resumed  church-going;  I  hope  it's  a  good 
sign." 

"I  don't  think  it  means  much,"  said  Rob; 
"  but  perhaps  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  I  were 
to  go  on  to  the  doctor,  and  tell  him  of  Sir  Ludo- 


vic's  stumble.     It  might  be  well  that  he  should 
know  at  once." 

"What's  about  Sir  Ludovic's  stumble?"  said 
the  Minister ;  while  Randal  called  after  the  oth- 
er as  he  went  away,  "I  will  come  and  see  you 
to-morrow." 

Rob  Glen  replied  with  an  acquiescing  nod  and 
wave  of  his  hand.  But  he  said  within  himself, 
"if  you  find  me,"  and  went  along  with  a  jubi- 
lant step  and  all  kinds  of  dreams  in  his  head. 
Sir  Ludovic  had  not  received  Rob  with  enthusi- 
asm when  he  had  gone  to  Earl's-hall.  He  had 
not  applauded  his  drawings  as  Margaret  did, 
who  knew  nothing  about  it,  though  he  allowed 
them  to  be  clever.  But  at  the  same  time  he  had 
always  tolerated  Rob,  never  objected  to  his  visits, 
nor  to  the  hours  which  Margaret  had  spent  flit- 
ting about  his  encampment  among  the  potatoes. 
If  he  had  disapproved  of  this  association,  surely 
he  would  have  prevented  it ;  and  what  could 
those  words  mean,  as  the  old  man  grasped  at  his 
offered  arm,  "  This  is  all  I  want?"  Wonderful 
words  !  meaning  all,  and  more  than  all,  that  the 
brightest  hopes  could  look  for.  "This  is  all  I 
want."  Margaret  had  taken  no  notice,  but  it  did 
not  seem  possible  to  Rob  that  she  could  have  heard 
such  words  unmoved.  It  is  astonishing  how  easy 
it  is  to  believe  miracles  on  our  own  behalf.  In 
any  other  case,  Rob  Glen  would  have  had  enough 
of  the  shrewd  good-sense  of  his  class  to  know 
how  very  unlikely  it  was  that  Sir  Ludovic  Leslie 
should  choose  for  his  young  daughter,  who  was 
an  heiress,  in  addition  to  every  other  advantage 
she  possessed,  an  alliance  with  the  son  of  a  small 
farmer  in  the  neighborhood,  a  "stickit  minis- 
ter," not  at  all  successful  or  satisfactory  even  to 
his  own  humble  kith  and  kin.  But  the  fact  that 
it  was  he  himself,  Rob  Glen,  who  was  the  hero, 
dazzled  him,  and  threw  a  fictitious  air  of  proba- 
bility upon  things  the  most  unlikely.  "This  is 
all  I  want."  What  could  the  fond  father,  who 
has  selected  an  Admirable  Crichton  to  insure  his 
child's  happiness,  say  more  ? 

"Oh  ay,"  said  Mrs.  Glen,  on  her  way  home 
from  church.  "The  Earl's-hall  family  makes  a 
great  work  with  our  Rob.  He's  there  morning, 
noon,  and  nicht.  I  never  see  him,  for  my  part. 
Either  he's  drawing  pictures  of  the  house,  or  he's 
learning  Miss  Margret  to  draw  them,  or  he's 
doin'  something  for  Sir  Ludovic.  They  take  up 
a'  his  time  that  lie  never  does  a  hand's  turn  for 
his  ain  affairs.  It's  an  awfu'  waste  of  time ;  but 
when  there  are  young  folk  concerned,  really  you 
never  can  ken  what's  the  maist  profitable  occupa- 
tion ;  just  nonsense,  in  that  kind  of  way,  is  some- 
times mair  for  their  advantage  in  the  long-run ; 
but  that's  no  my  way  of  judging  in  the  general, 
far  enough  from  my  way." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  was  thinking,"  said  Mrs. 
Cupar,  of  the  Longriggs,  a  neighboring  farm, 
but  a  much  more  important  one.  If  Mrs.  Cupar 
walked,  it  was  because  she  chose  to  do  so,  not 
from  any  need  to  employ  this  vulgar  natural  mode 
of  locomotion  ;  for,  besides  her  husband's  gig, 
there  was  a  pony-chaise  at  her  orders,  and  her 
dress  was  made  by  one  of  the  best  artistes  in  Ed- 
inburgh, and  her  daughters,  who  came  behind, 
were  young  ladies  who  might  have  walked  through 
the  Park  without  remark,  infinitely  better  dress- 
ed than  Margaret  Leslie.  They  were  better  than 
Margaret  in  a  great  many  ways ;  they  could  play 
on  the  piano ;  and  it  was  their  mother's  determi- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


59 


nation  to  keep  them  clear  of  Rob  Glen,  or  any 
other  suitor  of  his  class,  that  made  her  so  "neigh- 
bor-like" with  Rob  Glen's  mother.  If  he  had 
finished  his  studies  in  an  orthodox  way,  and 
become  a  "placed  minister,"  then,  indeed,  she 
might  have  relaxed  her  vigilance ;  but  as  matters 
were,  no  fox  could  have  been  more  dangerous  to 
the  hen-roost  than  this  idle  young  man  of  educa- 
tion, who  was  only  a  sma'  farmer's  son.  Small 
farmers,  who  cannot  be  denied  as  part  of  the 
profession,  yet  who  sink  it  down  among  the  ranks 
of  the  commonalty,  are  not  liked  by  their  larger 
neighbors  in  the  kingdom  of  Fife. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  was  thinking,"  said  Mrs. 
Cupar.  "  I  did  not  imagine  you  were  one  who 
would  give  in  to  idleness  under  any  excuse." 

"No  me,"  said  Mrs.  Glen;  "if  my  lad  had 
taken  up  his  head  with  foreign  travel,  and  wan- 
derings about  the  world  like  that  son  of  the  min- 
ister's, Randal — no  that  it's  our  place  to  judge 
our  neighbors;  but  there  is  a  time  for  every- 
thing, as  is  said  in  Scripture,  and  I've  confi- 
dence in  my  Rob  that  it's  no  just  for  nothing  his 
stopping  here  so  long.  They  make  a  great  work 
with  him  at  Earl's-hall.  Sir  Ludovic,  you  see 
for  yourself,  is  very  frail.  How  he  grippit  to 
Rob's  arm !  It's  a  grand  thing  for  an  auld  man 
to  find  a  young  arm  to  lean  upon,  and  a  kind 
person  to  be  good  to  him." 

Mrs.  Glen  could  not  help  bragging  a  little. 
She  was  as  much  elated  as  Rob  was,  and  as  en- 
tirely blind  to  all  the  difficulties,  though  in  any 
other  case,  who  would  have  seen  more  clearly  ? 
She  had  kept  herself  in  the  background,  having 
sense  enough  to  see  that  Rob's  mother  could  not 
further  his  pursuits ;  but  she  could  not  hold  her 
tongue,  or  refrain  from  waving  her  flag  of  tri- 
umph before  her  neighbors — these  neighbors  who 
were  themselves  "  upsetting,"  and  gave  them- 
selves airs  much  beyond  any  possible  at  Earl's- 
lee.  Mrs.  Glen  was  not  by  any  means  sure  that 
"the  Misses"  at  Longriggs,  and  their  mother 
had  not  designs  of  their  own  upon  her  son,  and, 
to  tell  the  truth,  either  Bessie  or  Jessie  Cupar 
would  have  been  an  excellent  match  for  Rob. 
If  he  had  fulfilled  his  fate  and  become  "  a  placed 
minister,"  what  could  have  been  better  ?  But 
Margaret  Leslie  and  her  fortune  had  intoxicated 
Mrs.  Glen.  She  could  not  help  flourishing  this 
sublime  hope  before  her  neighbors'  eyes. 

"  Then  we  need  not  be  surprised  if  we  hear  of 
an  engagement,"  said  Mrs.  Cupar,  "  in  that  quar- 
ter." She  thought  the  woman  was  daft,  as  she 
said  to  the  girls  afterward.  Miss  Leslie !  a  beau- 
ty, and  an  heiress,  and  one  of  the  proudest  fam- 
ilies in  Fife.  Surely  the  woman  was  out  of  her 
wits!  But  it  was  as  well  to  give  her  her  own 
way,  and  hear  all  that  there  was  to  hear. 

"Na,  it's  no  for  me  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Glen. 
"I'm  no  saying  just  that.  I'm  saying  nothing, 
it's  no  my  part,  and  Rob,  he's  no  a  lad  to  brag: 
but  I  keep  my  een  open,  and  I  form  my  ain  opin- 
ions for  all  that.  My  son's  not  just  a  common 
lad.  Till  something  opens  him  up,  he's  real 
hard  to  divine.  He's  more  than  ordinar  clever, 
for  one  thing,  and  when  he  gets  with  folk  that 
can  enter  into  his  ways — I'm  free  to  confess  I'm 
no  one  of  that  kind  mysel'.  I've  nae  education 
to  put  me  on  a  par  with  him.  There's  his  pict- 
ures. You've  no  seen  his  pictures?  I'm  told, 
and  I  can  well  believe  it,"  said  the  proud  moth- 
er, ' '  that  there's  many  a  warse  in  the  National 


Gallery,  though  that's  considered  the  best  collec- 
tion in  a'  the  world." 

"Dear  me,  now,  to  think  of  that!"  said  the 
other  farmer's  wife.  "Jessie  and  Bessie  are 
both  very  good  at  drawing.  They  were  consid- 
ered to  have  a  great  taste  for  it ;  but  for  my 
part  I've  always  thought  for  a  man  that  it  was  a 
great  wastery  of  time." 

"No  when  it's  the  best  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Glen, 
in  her  superior  knowledge.  "I  wouldna  say 
for  the  young  ladies'  bits  of  drawings  ;  but  when 
it's  the  right  kind,  there's  nothing  I  ken  that 
brings  in  more  money."  Rob's  mother  felt  just- 
ly that  this  was  the  true  test.  "There's  thou- 
sands on  thousands  o'  pounds  to  be  made  by  it; 
but  it  wants  a  real  genius,  aud  that's  just  what 
Rob  has  shown." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  her  listener  again.  Not- 
withstanding a  natural  undercurrent  of  scorn, 
she  could  not  help  being  impressed  by  so  posi- 
tive an  assertion.  Had  Jessie  and  Bessie  shown 
real  genius?  There  was  something  deeply  im- 
pressive, even  though  she  scarcely  believed  in  it, 
in  a  thing  by  which  thousands  and  thousands 
could  be  made. 

"  I  must  look  out  the  girls'  sketches  to-mor- 
row," she  said,  "and  see  what  your  son  thinks 
of  them.  It  must  be  a  great  comfort  for  you, 
Mrs.  Glen,  when  he  has  made  up  his  mind  not  to 
follow  one  thing,  to  find  he  has  a  good  prospect 
in  another.  It's  not  often  a  young  man  has  that 
luck  when  he  gives  up  what  he's  been  brought  up 
to.  But  now  I  must  bid  you  good-day,  for  this  is 
our  nearest  road  ;  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  hear 
when  anything  happens."  "The  woman's  daft," 
Mrs.  Cupar  said,  as  she  went  on.  "She  thinks 
because  Sir  Ludovic,  poor  old  frail  gentleman, 
gripped  Rob's  arm,  finding  him  the  foremost, 
that  he's  going  to  give  her  son  his  daughter  Mar- 
garet Leslie!— that  thinks  herself  of  a  different 
kind  of  flesh  and  blood  from  the  like  of  you ; 
and  I  would  think  myself  sore  brought  down  in 
the  world  if  I  had  to  give  one  o'  you  to  Rob 
Glen!" 

"Well,  mamma,"  said  one  of  the  girls,  "he 
is  what  the  maids  call  a  bonnie  lad."  "And 
very  like  a  gentleman,"  said  the  other.  They 
both  gave  a  glance  behind  them  as  they  spoke, 
not  at  all  unwilling,  if  truth  were  told,  to  be  over- 
taken by  Rob  Glen. 

"Jessie,  Jessie,  how  often  must  I  tell  you  not 
to  be  vulgar?  There  is  nothing  so  vulgar  as 
that  broad  Scotch,"  cried  the  genteel  farmer's 
wife.  She  was  more  horrified  than  Sir  Ludovic 
was  with  Margaret's  idioms  and  Fifish  confusion 
of  grammar ;  but  the  girls  were  not  nearly  so  de- 
cided as  to  the  folly  of  Mrs.  Glen.  They  thought 
there  was  something  to  say  on  the  other  side. 
Margaret  Leslie  had  no  education ;  she  had  nev- 
er been  out  of  that  old  crow's-nest  of  a  house. 
She  had  never  had  masters  for  anything,  or  seen 
the  world.  Family  was  not  everything,  nor 
money  either ;  and  if  there  was  a  nice-looking, 
handsome,  well-educated  young  man  who  did 
not  mind  her  want  of  education —  Mrs.  Cupar 
thought  her  own  girls  were  almost  as  daft  as 
Mrs.  Glen. 

But  there  was  another  humble  pedestrian  com- 
ing after  them,  who  was  of  the  same  opinion  as 
the  girls.  Jeanie  had  seen  Mrs.  Glen  and  her 
son  from  a  distance,  but  bad  not  been  seen  by 
Rob,  who  had  eyes  only  for  Margaret,  and,  an- 


60 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


der  the  shade  of  her  book,  the  poor  girl  had 
watched  him,  all  unconscious  of  her  observation. 
He  had  not  been  at  church  before  since  he  re- 
turned to  his  mother's  house,  and  all  his  thoughts 
were  bent,  it  seemed  to  Jeanie,  upon  the  large, 
square,  red-lined  pew  which  held  her  master  and 
Miss  Margaret;  Even  if  Margaret  were  not 
there,  was  it  likely  that  he  would  have  greeted 
her  in  the  face  of  day — he,  a  gentleman,  and  she 
but  a  servant-lass  ?  Jeanie  felt  the  impossibili- 
ty of  the  connection  more  than  she  had  ever 
done  before.  She  had  seen  nothing,  indeed, 
that  was  impossible  in  it  when  she  had  gone  to 
his  uncle's  shop,  or  taken  a  Sunday  walk  with 
Rob  out  by  Glasgow  Green  and  upon  the  water- 
side. But  here  the  reality  of  the  matter  burst 
upon  her.  She  saw  him  walk  past  with  Sir  Lu- 
dovic  leaning  on  his  arm,  while  she  hung  back 
while  ' '  the  kirk  skaaled. "  She  saw  him  shake 
hands  with  Randal  Burnside.  And  she  was 
nothing  but  Bell's  helper,  a  servant -lass.  Her 
father  had  been  one  of  the  elders  who  stood  at 
the  plate  on  this  eventful  day,  and  John  Rob- 
ertson understood  the  wistful  look  his  daughter 
gave  him  when  the  service  was  over. 

"Ay,  ay,  he  saw  me  weel  enough — he  could 
not  help  seeing  me.  He  gave  me  a  little  nod  as 
he  passed,  quite  civil :  but — I  would  think  na 
mair  of  such  a  whillie-wha, "  said  John. 

"  You  must  not  ca'  names,  faither,"  said  gen- 
tle Jeanie ;  but  it  was  a  heavy  heart  which  she 
carried  along  that  same  road,  keeping  far  behind 
Mrs.  Glen  and  Mrs.  Cupar  and  the  young  ladies. 
It  was  no  wonder  to  Jeanie,  nor  had  she  any 
doubt  about  Sir  Ludovic.  Who  would  not  be 
glad  of  such  a  lad  as  Rob  ?  She  was  not  angry 
with  Margaret,  nor  even  with  Rob  himself,  for 
that  matter.  It  was  her  own  fault  ever  to  think 
that  she  was  his  equal.  What  was  he  but  a  lad- 
die, that  did  not  know  his  own  mind,  when  he 
had  pledged  himself  to  her  that  ought  to  have 
known  better  ?  She  was  younger  than  he  was, 
yet  she  ought  to  have  known  better.  He  was 
not  a  whillie-wha,  as  her  father  said,  but  only 
too  tender-hearted,  liking  to  please  those  he  was 
with.  Only  this  could  ever  have  made  him 
waste  so  much  of  his  time  and  kindness  upon 
John  Robertson's  daughter — a  servant-lass — he 
that,  at  the  least,  would  be  "a placed  minister!" 
At  last  Jeanie  saw  clearly  the  absurdity  of  the 
thought. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Sir  Ludovic  was  "none  the  worse"  of  his 
stumble,  and  next  day  all  things  went  on  as  be- 
fore. Rob  Glen  was  one  of  the  first  who  came 
to  inquire,  and  he  was  asked  to  go  up  -  stairs, 
and  was  thanked  for  his  aid  with  all  ceremony, 
yet  kindness,  Margaret  standing  by,  beaming 
upon  him,  beaming  with  pleasure  and  gratitude. 
Rob,  she  felt,  was  her  friend  much  more  than 
her  father's,  and  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  his 
succor  of  her  father,  and  grateful  to  Sir  Ludovic 
for  accepting  the  service.  She  stood  by  and 
smiled  upon  the  young  man.  "I  am  very 
thankful  too,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Glen,"  and  the 
look  in  Rob's  eyes  made  her  blush.  She  had 
always  been  given  to  blushing;  but  Margaret 
blushed  more  than  ever  now,  in  the  vague  ex- 
citement of  thought  and  feeling  which  these  last 


weeks  had  revived  in  her.  They  had  been  spent 
almost  in  Rob's  constant  companionship,  so  long 
had  the  sketching  lasted  ;  and  the  two  had  been 
for  hours  together,  alone,  in  close  proximity, 
with  unlimited  opportunities  of  conversation. 
He  had  told  her  a  great  deal  about  himself,  and 
she  had  revealed  to  him  all  the  corners  of  her 
innocent  memory.  They  had  become  again  as 
closely  united  as  when  little  Margaret  sat  by  the 
big  boy,  with  her  little  feet  dabbling  in  the  wa- 
ter, spoiling  his  fishing,  but  filling  him  with  vague 
delight. 

He  had  indulged  in  various  other  loves  since 
then ;  but,  after  all,  when  you  came  to  look  back 
upon  it,  was  not  little  Margaret  his  first  love? 
He  got  her  to  go  with  him  one  day  to  the  burn, 
which  they  had  haunted  as  children,  and  told 
her  he  meant  to  make  a  picture  of  it.  This  was 
just  the  spot,  he  said.  It  was  nothing  but  a  bit 
of  grassy  bank,  a  ragged  willow  dipping  into  the 
brook,  a  great  old  hawthorn-bush  upon  the  slope. 
"You  used  to  be  so  fond  of  the  white  hawthorn  " 
("And  so  I  am  still,"  Margaret  said),  "  and  here 
was  where  you  sat  with  the  clear  water  running 
over  your  little  feet.  I  think  I  can  see  them 
now."  Margaret  grew  crimson,  but  that  was 
an  effect  so  easily  produced  ;  and  she  too  thought 
she  could  remember  sitting  on  these  summer  af- 
ternoons, witli  the  soft  ripple,  like  warm  silk, 
playing  over  her  feet,  and  the  scent  of  the  haw- 
thorn (we  do  not  call  it  May  in  Fife)  filling  the 
air,  and  flies  and  little  fishes  dimpling  the  sur- 
face of  the  pool.  "I  will  paint  a  picture  of  it," 
said  Rob ;  and  the  idea  pleased  her.  Thus  the 
days  went  on ;  they  were  shorter  than  any  days 
had  ever  been  before  to  Margaret,  full  of  interest, 
full  of  pleasure.  An  atmosphere  of  soft  flattery, 
praise,  too  delicate  to  be  put  into  words,  a  kind 
of  unspoken  worship,  surrounded  her.  She  was 
amused,  she  was  occupied,  she  was  made  happy. 
And  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask  herself  the 
reason  of  this  vague  but  delightful  exhilaration. 
She  felt  it  like  an  atmosphere  all  round  her,  but 
did  not  ask  herself,  and  did  not  know  what  it 
was. 

And  perhaps  with  this  round  of  pleasant  occu- 
pation going  on  outside,  she  was  not  quite  so 
much  with  her  father,  or  so  ready  to  note  his 
ways  as  she  had  been.  On  the  Monday  evening, 
Rob,  by  special  invitation,  dined  with  them,  and 
exerted  himself  to  his  utmost  to  amuse  Sir  Lu- 
dovic ;  and  after  this  beginning  he  came  often. 
He  did  amuse  Sir  Ludovic,  sometimes  by  his 
knowledge,  sometimes  by  his  ignorance;  by  the 
clever  things  he  would  say,  and  the  foolish  things 
he  would  say — the  one  as  much  as  the  other. 

"Let  your  friend  come  to  dinner,"  the  old 
man  would  say,  with  a  smile.  "John,  you  will 
put  a  plate  for  Mr.  Glen. "  And  so  it  came  about 
that  for  a  whole  week  Rob  shared  their  meal  ev- 
ery evening.  When  Sir  Ludovic  got  drowsy  (as 
it  is  so  natural  to  do  after  dinner,  for  every  one, 
not  only  for  old  men),  the  two  young  people 
would  steal  away  into  the  West  Chamber  and 
watch  the  sun  setting,  which  also  was  a  danger- 
ous amusement.  Thus  it  will  be  seen  poor  little 
unprotected  Margaret  was  in  a  bad  way. 

During  all  this  time,  the  old  servants  of  the 
house  watched  their  master  very  closely.  Even 
Bell  had  to  give  up  the  consideration  of  Mar- 
garet and  devote  herself  to  Sir  Ludovic.  And 
they  saw  many  signs  and  tokens  that  they  did 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


C] 


not  like,  and  had  many  constdtations  whether 
Mr.  Leslie  or  "  the  ladies  "  should  be  sent  for. 
The  ladies  seemed  the  most  natural,  for  the 
young  master  was  known  to  have  his  business 
to  attend  to,  and  his  family;  but  Bell  "could 
not  bide"  calling  for  the  ladies  before  their 
time.  And  Sir  Ludovic  was  just  in  his  ordinar ; 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said ;  failing,  but 
that  was  natural:  nothing  that  anybody  could 
take  notice  of.  It  was  well  to  have  Rob  Glen  at 
night,  for  that  amused  him ;  and  when  the  Min- 
ister called,  bringing  his  son  to  be  re-presented 
to  his  old  friend,  they  were  glad,  for  Sir  Ludovic 
was  interested.  When  Dr.  Burnside  went  away, 
he  stopped  at  the  door  expressly  to  tell  Bell 
how  glad  he  was  to  see  the  old  gentleman  look 
so  well. 

"He's  taking  out  a  new  lease,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. 

"  Eh  me,"  Bell  said,  looking  after  him,  "  how 
little  sense  it  takes  to  make  a  minister!"  But 
this  was  an  utterance  of  hasty  temper,  for  she 
had  in  reality  an  exalted  respect  for  Dr.  Burn- 
side,  both  as  minister  and  as  man. 

But  it  fell  upon  the  house  like  a  bomb-shell, 
when  suddenly  one  morning,  after  being  unusu- 
ally well  the  night  before,  Sir  Ludovic  declined 
to  get  out  of  bed.  No,  he  said,  he  was  not  ill, 
he  was  quite  comfortable ;  but  he  did  not  feel 
disposed  to  get  up.  Old  John,  upon  whose  im- 
agination this  had  an  effect  quite  out  of  propor- 
tion to  its  apparent  importance  as  an  incident, 
begged  and  entreated  almost  with  tears,  and, 
finding  his  own  remonstrances  ineffectual,  went 
to  get  Bell. 

"  I  canna  stand  it,"  the  old  man  said.  "  Get 
you  him  out  of  his  bed,  Bell.  Pit  it  to  me  ony 
other  way,  and  I'll  bear  it ;  but  to  see  him  lie 
yonder  smiling,  and  think  of  a'  that's  to  come !" 

Bell  put  on  a  clean  apron  and  went  up-stairs. 

"Sir  Ludovic,"  she  said,  "you're  no  going 
to  bide  there  as  if  you  were  ill,  and  frighten  my 
auld  man  out  of  his  wits.  Ye  ken,  John,  he's  a 
dour  body  on  the  outside,  but  within  there's  no 
a  baby  has  a  softer  heart ;  and  he  canna  bide  to 
see  you  in  your  bed — nor  me  either!"  cried  the 
old  woman,  suddenly,  putting  up  her  hands  to 
her  face. 

Sir  Ludovic  lay  quite  placid,  with  his  white 
head  upon  the  white  pillows,  his  fine  dark  eyes 
full  of  light,  and  smiling.  It  was  enough,  Bell 
thought,  to  break  the  heart  of  a  stone. 

"And  why  should  I  get  up  when  I  am  com- 
fortable here?"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  "my  good 
Bell.  You've  ruled  over  me  so  long  that  you 
think  I  am  never  to  have  a  will  of  my  own ; 
and,  indeed,  if  I  do  not  show  a  spark  of  resolu- 
tion now,  when  am  I  to  show  it?"  he  said,  with 
a  soft  laugh.     "  There  is  but  little  time." 

On  this  John  made  an  inarticulate  outburst, 
something  between  a  sob  and  a  groan — a  roar 
of  grief  and  impatience  such  as  an  animal  in  ex- 
tremity might  have  uttered.  He  had  stolen  up 
behind  his  wife,  not  able  to  keep  away  from  his 
old  master.  Bell  had  long  been  her  husband's 
interpreter  when  words  failed  him.  She  dried 
her  eyes  with,  her  apron,  and  turned  again  to  the 
bedside. 


'  Sir  Ludovic,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "  he  says 
'11  break  his  heart." 

'My  good  friend,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a 
humorous  twitch  about  his  mouth,  "let  us  be 


you 


honest.  It  must  come  some  time,  why  shouldn't 
it  come  now?  I've  been  trying,  like  the  rest  of 
you,  to  push  it  off,  and  pretend  I  did  not  know. 
Come,  you  are  not  so  young  yourself,  to  be  fright- 
ened. It  must  come,  sooner  or  later.  What  is 
the  use  of  being  uncomfortable,  trying  to  keep 
it  at  arm's-length?  I'm  very  well  here.  lam 
quite  at  my  ease.  Let  us  go  through  with  it," 
said  Sir  Ludovic,  with  a  sparkle  in  his  eye. 

"You're  speaking  Hebrew-Greek  to  me,  Sir 
Ludovic.  I  canna  tell  no  more  than  the  babe 
unborn  what  you're  going  through  with,"  cried 
Bell ;  and  when  she  had  said  this  she  threw  her 
apron  over  her  head  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"Well,  this  is  a  cheerful  beginning,"  said  Sir 
Ludovic.  "  Call  ye  this  backing  of  your  friends  ? 
Go  away,  you  two  old  fools,  and  send  me  my 
little  Peggy ;  and  none  of  your  wailing  to  her, 
Bell.  Leave  the  little  thing  at  peace  as  long  as 
that  may  be." 

"I  hope  I  ken  my  duty  to  Miss  Margret," 
said  Bell,  with  an  air  of  offence,  which  was  the 
easiest  to  put  on  in  the  circumstances.  She  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room  with  hasty  steps,  keeping 
up  this  little  fiction,  and  met  Margaret  coming 
down-stairs,  fresh  as  the  morning,  in  her  light 
dress,  with  her  shining  hair.  "You're  to  go  to 
your  papa, Miss  Margret," said  Bell,  "in  his  ain 
room:  where  you'll  find  him  in  his  bed — " 

"He's  not  ill,  Bell?"  cried  Margaret,  with 
quick  anxiety. 

"111!  He's  just  as  obstinate  and  as  ill-willy 
as  the  mule  in  the  Scriptures,"  cried  Bell,  dart- 
ing down  the  winding  stair.  She  could  not  bear 
it  any  more  than  John.  Margaret,  standing  on 
the  spiral  steps,  an  apparition  of  brightness,  ev- 
erything about  her 

"  Drawn 
From  morning  and  the  cheerful  dawn ;" 

her  countenance  all  smiling,  her  eyes  as  soft  and 
as  happy  as  the  morning  light — Bell  could  not 
see  her  for  tears.  She  seemed  to  see  the  crape 
and  blackness  which  so  soon  would  envelop  them 
all,  and  the  deeper  darkness  of  the  world,  in 
which  this  young  creature  would  soon  have  no 
natural  home.  "No  another  moment  to  think 
upon  it,"  Bell  said  to  herself;  "no  a  moment. 
The  ladies  maun  come  now." 

Margaret,  surprised,  went  through  the  long 
room  in  which,  by  this  hour,  her  father's  chair 
was  always  occupied,  but  felt  no  superstitious 
presentiment  at  seeing  it  desolate.  Sir  Ludo- 
vic's  rooms — there  were  two  of  them,  a  larger 
and  a  smaller — opened  off  from  the  long  room. 
He  had  taken,  quite  lately,  as  his  bedchamber, 
the  smaller  room  of  the  two,  an  octagon-shaped 
and  panelled  room,  as  being  the  warmest  and 
most  bright ;  and  there  he  was  lying,  smiling  as 
when  Bell  saw  him  first,  with  the  morning  light 
upon  his  face. 

"You  sent  for  me,  papa,"  said  Margaret. 
"  Are  you  ill  that  you  are  in  bed  ?  I  have  nev- 
er seen  you  in  bed  before." 

"Remember  that,  then,  my  Peggy,  as  a  proof 
of  the  comfortable  life  I  have  had,  though  I  am 
so  old.  No,  not  ill,  but  very  comfortable.  Why 
should  I  get  up  and  give  myself  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  when  I  am  so  comfortable  here  ?" 

"  Indeed,  if  you  are  so  very  comfortable — " 
said  Margaret,  a  little  bewildered:  "it  must  be 
only  laziness,  papa;"  and  she  laughed,  but  stop- 
ped in  the  middle  of  her  laugh,  and  grew  serious, 


62 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


she  could  not  tell  why.  "But  it  is  very  lazy  of 
you,"  she  said.  "I  never  heard  of  any  one  who 
was  quite  well  staying  in  bed  because  it  was 
comfortable." 

"No?  But  then  there  are  things  in  heaven 
and  earth,  my  Peggy,  and  I  want  you  to  do  some- 
thing for  me.  I  want  you  to  write  a  letter  for 
me.  Bring  your  writing  things  here,  and  I  will 
tell  you  what  to  say." 

She  met  John  in  the  long  room,  coming  in 
with  various  articles,  as  if  to  provision  a.  place 
which  was  about  to  be  besieged.  He  had  some 
wood  under  his  arm  to  light  a  fire,  and  a  tray 
with  cups  and  glasses,  and  a  hot-water  bottle 
(called  in  Scotland  a  "pig")  ;  and  there  was  an 
air  of  excitement  about  him,  suppressed  and  som- 
bre, which  struck  Margaret  with  vague  alarm. 
"  Why  are  you  taking  in  all  these  things?"  she 
said ;   "he  did  not  say  he  was  cold." 

"If  he  doesn't  want  them  the  day,  he  may 
want  them  the  morn,"  said  John. 

"  The  mom !  he  is  not  going  to  lie  in  bed  al- 
ways because  it  is  comfortable ;  that  would  be 
too  absurd,"  said  Margaret.  "What  is  it? 
There  is  not  going  to  be  —  anything  done  to 
papa? — any — operation?  What  is  it?  You  look 
as  if  there  was — something  coming — " 

"I  have  my  work  to  do,"  said  John,  hastily 
turning  away.  "I've  nae  time  to  say  ay  and  no 
to  little  misses  that  canna  understand." 

"Oh,  John,  what  an  old  bear  you  are!"  said 
Margaret.  He  made  her  uneasy.  It  seemed  as 
if  something  must  have  happened  during  the 
night.  Was  her  father,  perhaps,  going  to  have  a 
leg  off,  or  an  arm  ?  She  knew  this  was  nonsense ; 
but  John's  paraphernalia  and  his  face  both  looked 
so.  She  went  to  the  West  Chamber,  where  all 
her  special  possessions  were,  and  got  her  little 
writing-case,  which  one  of  her  sisters  had  given 
her.  Last  night  before  she  went  to  bed  she  had 
set  np  a  little  drawing  she  had  done,  and  which 
she  thought  was  more  successful  than  any  hith- 
erto attempted.  She  had  set  it  up  so  that  she 
might  see  it  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  to 
judge  how  it  bore  the  light  of  day.  And  on  the 
table  was  Rob's  block  with  the  sketch  he  had  made 
of  Sir  Ludovic  in  his  chair.  He  was  to  come 
again  that  very  day,  with  her  father's  consent, 
to  go  on  with  it.  All  this  looked  somehow,  she 
could  not  tell  how,  a  long  way  off  to  Margaret, 
as  if  something  had  happened  to  set  these  simple 
plans  aside.  She  felt,  in  the  jargon  of  her  new 
art,  as  if  the  foreground  had  suddenly  grown  into 
such  importance  that  all  that  was  behind  it  was 
thrown  miles  back.  It  was  very  strange ;  and 
yet  nothing  had  happened,  only  her  father  was 
lazy,  and  had  not  got  out  of  bed. 

"Who  is  it  for?  And  am  I  to  write  from 
myself,  papa,  or  am  I  to  write  for  you  ?"  she  said, 
sitting  down  at  the  bedside  and  opening  her 
writing-case.  He  paused,  and  looked  at  her  for 
a  moment  before  he  spoke. 

"It  is  to  your  sisters,  to  Jean  and  Grace,  my 
little  Peggy." 

"To  Jean  and  Grace !" 

"  To  ask  them,  if  it  is  quite  convenient,  to 
come  here  now,  instead  of  waiting  till  Septem- 
ber, according  to  their  general  custom — " 

"Oh,  papa!"  cried  Margaret,  suddenly  real- 
izing the  change  that  was  coming  in  her  life ; 
the  sketches  and  the  drawing -lessons,  and  the 
talks,  and  the  confidences,  and  Rob  Glen  him- 


self—  What  would  Jean  and  Grace  say  to  Rob  ? 
She  felt  as  if  in  a  moment  all  her  little  structure 
of  amusement  and  pleasure  was  falling  to  pieces. 
She  closed  her  writing-case  again  with  a  gesture 
of  despair.  "Oh,  papa,  is  not  September  soon 
enough?  I  don't  want  them  here  now.  In — 
the  summer,"  said  Margaret,  hastily,  blushing  for 
herself  at  the  little  subtle  subterfuge  to  which 
she  was  resorting  to  conceal  her  real  terror — 
"in  the  summer  there  is  always  something — I 
mean  so  many  things  to  do." 

"Yes,"  her  father  said,  with  a  smile;  "and 
for  some  of  us,  my  little  girl,  things  we  shall 
never  do  again." 

She  did  not  realize  the  meaning  of  this,  and 
perhaps  Margaret  may  be  pardoned  if,  not  know- 
ing the  sadder  circumstances  involved,  her  mind 
was  for  the  moment  absorbed  in  her  own  disap- 
pointment and  confusion ;  the  sudden  sense  of 
arrest  and  stoppage  in  all  her  pleasant  ways 
which  overwhelmed  her.  "Why  do  you  want 
them,  papa?"  she  went  on  ;  "am  I  not  enough ? 
You  used  to  say  you  liked  me  best.  You  used 
to  say,  just  you  and  me,  you  and  me,  got  on  best 
in  the  old  house." 

"And  so  I  would  say  still,"  said  the  old  man, 
"my  little  Peggy,  my  bonnie  Peggy  !  Yes,  it  is 
enough  to  have  you  and  me.  (I  forgive  you  the 
grammar.)  But  however  selfish  I  might  be  were 
there  only  myself  to  think  of,  I  must  think  now 
of  you,  my  little  girl." 

"And  what  is  about  me?"  cried  Margaret; 
"if  you  think  I  want  Jean  and  Grace,  papa, 
what  will  they  do  but  find  fault  ?  They  are  nev- 
er satisfied  with  anything  we  do.  They  find 
fault  with  everybody.  They  say  John  is  stu- 
pid— " 

"And  so  he  is,  a  doited  old  body — and,  my 
Peggy,  sometimes  very  far  from  civil  to  you." 

"Old  John,  papa?  To  me?  He  is  as  fond 
of  me  as  if  I  were  his  own.  When  he  scolds, 
I  don't  pay  any  attention,  any  more  than  when 
you  scold." 

Sir  Ludovic  laughed. 

"  That  is  a  pretty  way  of  telling  me  how  little 
authority  I  have,"  he  said. 

"Papa!"  cried  Margaret,  impatiently,  "you 
know  very  well  that  is  not  what  I  mean.  I 
would  not  vex  you,  not  for  the  world — never  you 
— and  not  even  John.  I  cannot  bear  him  to  be 
called  names,  and  everything  found  fault  with. 
There's  not  this  and  there's  not  that ;  no  draw- 
ing-room ;  and  the  bedrooms  are  not  big  enough, 
and  me  not  well  enough  dressed." 

"Perhaps  they  are  right  there,  my  Peggy.  I 
fear  you  are  dressed  anyhow,  though  I  see  no- 
body that  looks  so  well." 

"Then  why  must  they  come  before  Septem- 
ber?" said  Margaret.  "Let  them  come,  papa, 
at  their  own  time." 

He  laughed  a  little,  lying  there  upon  the  white 
pillow,  with  a  delicate  hue  of  life  in  his  old  cheek, 
and  all  the  vigor  of  twenty  in  his  dark  eyes.  He 
did  not  look  as  if  there  was  anything  the  matter 
with  him.  He  only  looked  comfortable,  luxuri- 
ously comfortable,  that  was  all.  She  laughed, 
too,  as  she  looked  at  him.  "How  lazy  you  are, 
papa!"  she  said;  "do  you  think  it  is  right? 
What  would  Bell  say  to  me  if  I  did  not  get  up  ? 
You  look  so  comfortable — and  so  happy." 

"Yes,  very  comfortable,"  he  said;  but  the 
laugh  went  off  his  face.     "  My  Peggy,"  he  went 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


C3 


on,  with  sudden  gravity,  "don't  ask  any  ques- 
tions, but  write  to  your  sisters.  Say  I  wisli  them 
to  come,  and  to  come  now.  No  more,  my  dear, 
no  more.  I  am  not  joking.  Say  I  will  look  fur 
them  as  soon  as  they  can  get  here." 

She  opened  her  writing-book  again,  and  got 
her  paper,  and  began  to  write.  When  he  took 
this  tone,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
obey.  But  when  she  had  written  a  few  lines, 
Margaret  stopped  suddenly  with  a  little  start,  as 
if  all  at  once  overtaken  by  a  sense  of  the  mean- 
ing of  what  she  was  doing.  "Papa,"  she  cried, 
the  color  leaving  her  face,  two  big  tears  starting 
into  her  eyes,  "you  are  hiding  something  from 
me :  you  are  ill ! " 

"  No,  no,"  he  said — "  no,  I  am  not  at  all  ill ; 
but,  my  Peggy,  one  never  knows  what  may  be 
going  to  happen,  and  I  want  to  have  your  sisters 
here." 

"Oh,"  cried  Margaret,  throwing  away  her 
book,  "  let  them  stay  away— let  them  stay-away ! 
I  want  you  all  to  myself.  I  can  take  care  of  you 
better  than  they  can.  Papa,  I  know  you  are  ill, 
though  you  will  not  own  it." 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  more  feebly.  "  Run  away 
and  play,  my  little  girl.  I  am — tired,  just  a  trifle 
tired  :  and  come  back  in  half  an  hour,  in  half  an 
hour,  before  post-time." 

"Here's  a  cordial  to  ye,  Sir  Ludovie,"  said 
John,  and  he  made  an  imperative  sign  to  his 
young  mistress.  "Let  him  be — lethimbe!  he's 
no  weel  enough  to  be  teased  about  anything,"  he 
whispered  in  her  ear. 

Margaret  stood  gazing  at  her  father  for  a 
moment  thunderstruck.  Then  she  snatched  up 
the  letter  she  had  begun,  and  rushed  rapidly, 
yet  on  noiseless  feet,  out  of  the  room.  Oh,  old 
I  John  was  cruel !  Would  she  do  anything  to 
1  tease  her  father?  And,  oh!  he  was  cruel  not 
1  to  tell  her — to  wish  for  Jean  and  Grace,  and  to 
hide  it  from  her.  She  went  down-stairs  like  the 
wind,  her  feet  scarcely  touching  the  steps,  mak- 
ing a  brightness  in  the  dim  light  of  the  stair,  and 
a  movement  in  the  stillness,  to  go  to  Bell,  her 
referee  in  everything,  and  to  ask  what  it  meant. 
j  "Oh,  Bell,  what  does  it  mean?"  was  on  her 
I  lips ;  when  suddenly,  through  the  open  door, 
|  Margaret  saw  two  figures  approaching,  and  stop- 
ped short.  They  were  young  men  both,  both 
pleasant  to  behold ;  but  even  at  that  agitated 
moment,  and  in  the  suddenness  of  the  appari- 
tion, the  girl  observed  the  difference  between 
them  without  knowing  that  she  observed  it. 
The  difference  was  to  the  disadvantage  of  Rob, 
on  whose  behalf  all  her  prepossessions  were  en- 
gaged ;  and  this  gave  her  a  faint  pang,  the  cause 
of  which  she  was  at  the  moment  quite  uncon- 
scious of.  "  Oh ! "  she  cried,  not  able  to  restrain 
her  little  outcry  of  trouble,  as  she  met  their  sur- 
prised and  questioning  looks — "oh,  papa  is  ill ; 
I  think  he  is  very  ill ;  and  I  don't  know  what  to 
do." 

The  second  of  the  visitors  was  Randal  Burn- 
side,  who  had  met  Rob  Glen  at  the  door ;  and 
it  was  he  who  answered  first,  eagerly,  "I  pass- 
ed Dr.  Hume's  carriage  on  the  road,  at  a  cottage 
door.  Shall  I  go  back  and  tell  him  to  come 
here?" 

"  Oh,  will  you  ?"  cried  Margaret,  two  big  tears 
trembling  out  with  a  great  plash,  like  big  rain- 
drops, from  her  anxious  eyes.  "  Oh,  will  you  ? 
That  is  what  I  want  most." 


He  did  not  stop  to  tell  his  errand,  or  to  receive 
any  greeting  or  acknowledgment,  but  turned, 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  sped  away.  Rob 
had  said  nothing ;  he  only  stood  gazing  at  her 
wistfully,  and  took  her  hand  when  the  other  was 
gone.  "I  see  what  is  the  matter," he  said,  ten- 
derly; "is  there  anything  new?  is  there  any 
cause  for  fear  ?" 

In  her  excitement,  Margaret  was  not  like  her- 
self. The  touch  and  the  tone  of  tenderness 
seemed  to  go  through  her  with  a  strange,  almost 
guilty,  sense  of  consolation  ;  and  yet  she  was 
angry  that  it  was  not  he  who  had  gone  to  serve 
her  practically.  She  drew  her  hand  away,  fright- 
ened, angry,  yet  not  displeased.  "  Why  did  you 
let  him  go  ?"  she  cried,  with  a  reproach  that  said 
more  than  confession. 

Rob's  face  brightened  and  glowed  all  over. 
"  I  wanted  to  stay  with  you  and  comfort  you," 
he  said ;  "  I  can  think  of  no  one  else  when  you 
are  in  trouble.  Come  in  and  rest,  and  tell  me 
what  it  is.  You  must  not  overdo  yourself.  You 
must  not  suffer.     I  want  to  take  care  of  you!" 

"Oh,  what  is  about  me?"  said  Margaret. 
But  she  suffered  herself  to  be  persuaded,  and 
went  with  him  up  to  the  West  Chamber  to  tell 
him  how  it  all  was. 


.CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Mrs.  Bellingham  and  Miss  Leslie  arrived 
as  soon  as  convenient  trains  could  bring  them. 
The  summons  which  Margaret  wrote  later  that 
day,  taking  down  her  father's  message  from  his 
lips,  was  not  instant,  though  as  decided  as  he 
could  make  it  without  too  much  alarming  the 
girl,  whose  nerves  were  shaken,  and  who  sat  and 
gazed  at  him  with  a  wistful  countenance,  large- 
eyed  and  dismal,  watching  every  look.  When 
he  spoke  to  her,  her  eyes  filled,  and  she  did  not 
seem  able  to  keep  that  anxious  gaze  from  his 
face.  But  the  doctor,  when  he  came,  was  more 
consoling  than  alarming.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  frightened  about,  he  said,  scolding  Margaret, 
paternally.  And  by  degrees  the  household  calm- 
ed down  and  accepted  the  new  state  of  affairs, 
and  began  to  think  it  natural  that  Sir  Ludovie 
should  have  taken  to  his  bed.  His  son  came 
and  paid  him  a  visit  from  Edinburgh,  staying  a 
single  night,  and  sitting  for  a  solemn  hour  or 
two  by  his  father's  bedside,  though  he  did  not 
say  much.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for 
you,  sir  ?"  he  asked,  and  begged  that  he  might 
be  written  to  daily  with  news  of  his  father's  state, 
though  he  could  find  so  little  to  say  to  him. 
But  the  visit  of  Mr.  Leslie  was  not  nearly  so  im- 
portant as  that  of  "  the  ladies,"  to  which  every- 
body looked  forward  with  excitement.  They 
arrived  in  the  afternoon,  having  slept  in  Edin- 
burgh the  previous  night.  Just  at  the  right  mo- 
ment they  arrived,  at  the  hour  which  is  most 
proper  for  the  arrival  of  a  visitor  at  a  country 
house,  leaving  just  time  enough  to  dress  for  din- 
ner. And  they  came  in  with  a  rustle  of  silk 
into  Sir  Ludovic's  octagon  room,  where  there 
was  scarcely  room  for  them,  and  gave  him  each 
a  delicate  kiss,  filling  the  place  with  delicate 
odors. 

"I  hope  you  are  a  little  better,  dear  papa," 
Grace  said  ;  and  Mrs.  Jean,  who  was  large  and 


64 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


round,  and  scarcely  could  pass  between  the  bed 
and  the  wall,  cried  out  cheerily  that  it  was  a  re- 
lief to  her  mind  to  see  him  looking  so  well. 

"I  never  should  have  found  out  he  was  ill  at 
all,  if  I  had  not  been  told,"  Mrs.  Bellingham 
said,  whose  voice  was  pitched  higher  than  that 
of  the  others.  Sir  Ludovic  greeted  them  kind- 
lv,  and  allowed  them  to  put  their  faces  against 
his  for  a  moment  without  disturbing  himself. 

"Yes,  I  told  you  —  I  am  very  comfortable," 
he  said  to  Margaret,  who  stood  behind,  very  ea- 
ger to  see  what  impression  her  father's  appear- 
ance would  make  on  her  sisters.  She  was  very 
happy,  poor  child,  to  hear  those  cheerful  words 
from  Mrs.  Beliingham's  high-pitched  voice. 

"  Well,  papa,  now  we  have  seen  you,  and  I 
feel  quite  happy  about  you,  we  will  go  and  make 
ourselves  comfortable  too,"  said  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham. "I  hope  you  have  a  cup  of  tea  for  us, 
Margaret,  after  our  journey?  and  you  must 
come  and  pour  it  out,  for  I  want  to  look  at  you. 
Papa  will  spare  you  a  little.  John  is  waiting  in 
the  next  room,  I  see." 

"John  will  do  very  well,"  said  Sir  Ludovic  ; 
' '  don't  derange  yourselves,  my  dears,  from  your 
usual  habits  for  me." 

"I  assure  you,  dear  papa," said  Grace,  "I  do 
not  care  at  all  for  being  put  out  of  my  usual 
habits.  I  will  stay  with  you.  What  is  there  in 
comparison  with  a  dear  father's  wishes?  You 
go,  dearest  Jean ;  I  am  sure  you  want  some  tea, 
and  I  will  stay  with  dear  papa.  I  can  see  in  his 
eyes,"  she  added,  in  an  audible  undertone,  push- 
ing her  sister  gently  toward  the  door,  "that  he 
wishes  me  to  stay." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  "you  must  not 
begin  your  self-sacrifices  as  soon  as  you  enter 
the  house.  I  am  looking  quite  well,  as  you  both 
say.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have 
your  tea  in  peace.  My  eyes  are  very  deceitful 
if  they  say  anything  about  it  except  what  I  have 
said.  Go,  and  make  yourselves  quite  comforta- 
ble." 

"Come,  come," said  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "This 
is  just  your  usual  nonsense ;  of  course  papa  likes 
his  old  John,  whom  he  can  order  about  as  he 
pleases,  better  than  you  in  that  old  silk  that 
makes  such  a  noise.  We  shall  come  and  sit 
with  papa  after  dinner;  good-bye  for  the  mo- 
ment," she  said,  kissing  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 
Sir  Ludovic  laughed  to  himself  softly  as  they 
disappeared.  They  came  back  every  year  with 
all  their  little  peculiarities  unchanged,  all  their 
little  vanities  and  minauderies — Grace  self-sacri- 
ficing, Jean  sensible.  They  were  so  little  like 
his  children  that  he  could  laugh  at  their  foibles 
without  any  harshness,  but  without  any  pain. 
The  constant  reappearance  of  these  two  ladies, 
always  falling  into  their  little  genteel  comedy 
as  they  entered  the  room,  exactly  at  the  point 
where,  on  the  previous  year,  they  left  it  off,  made 
the  interval  of  time  appear  as  if  it  had  never 
been.  John,  who  was  coming  in  with  one  of  the 
many  additional  adjuncts  to  comfort  which  he 
was  always  bringing,  caught  the  sound  of  the 
laugh.  John  did  not  know  if  he  approved  of  a 
laugh  from  a  dying  man,  but  he  could  not  help 
joining  in  with  a  faint  chuckle. 

"  The  ladies,  Sir  Ludovic,  are  aye  just  the 
same,  a'  their  little  ways,"  he  said. 

Meanwhile  Margaret  followed  them  in  a  little 
flutter  of  excitement.    She  had  not  wanted  them 


to  come ;  but  now  that  they  were  here,  the  nov- 
elty was  always  agreeable,  and  she  had  been 
grateful  to  them  for  thinking  so  well  of  Sir 
Ludovic's  looks,  which  by  dint  of  anxiety  and 
watching  she  had  ceased  to  be  satisfied  with. 
Bell,  who  knew  the  ways  and  the  wants  of  the 
ladies,  had  sent  up  tea  to  the  West  Chamber, 
whither  they  went,  giving  a  sensation  of  compa- 
ny and  fulness  to  the  quiet  old  house.  Tire  other 
voices  in  Earl's-hall  had  a  different  sound  ;  they 
were  lower,  softer,  with  a  little  of  the  chant  and 
modulation  which  belongs  to  Fife,  and  did  not 
make  the  air  tingle  as  Mrs.  Bellingham  did. 
Even  down -stairs  the  women  -  servants  could 
trace  the  movements  of  the  new-comers  by  the 
flow  of  what  was  chiefly  a  monologue  on  the 
part  of  the  elder  lady.  Miss  Leslie  had  no  ob- 
jection to  take  her  share  ;  but  Mrs.  Bellingham 
had  most  boldness  and  most  perseverance,  and 
left  little  room  for  any  one  else.  "Hear  to  her 
lang  tongue," Bell  said;  "high  English,  and  as 
sharp  as  the  clipping  of  a  pair  of  shears."  It 
ran  on  from  Sir  Ludovic's  dressing-room,  through 
the  long  room,  which  was  so  vacant,  and  which 
Margaret  could  scarcely  go  through  without  tears. 

"I  wish  papa  would  have  been  advised  about 
this  room,  it  might  have  been  made  so  much 
more  comfortable.  A  partition  where  that  screen 
is  would  have  given  a  real  dining-room  and  li- 
brary, instead  of  this  ridiculous  long  wilderness. 
Oh,  Margaret,  why  do  you  leave  that  huge  old 
chair  standing  out  there,  to  break  one's  legs 
against  ?  It  should  be  put  back  out  of  the 
way,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham,  advancing  her  hand 
to  put  aside  the  chair. 

"  Oh,  stop,  stop !  It  is  papa's  chair  ;  it  must 
not  be  moved!" 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,  it  is  papa's  chair,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellingham.  She  stood  and  looked  at  it  for  a 
moment,  with  her  head  on  one  side.  "  Well,  do 
you  know  it  is  touching,  this?  Poor  papa!  I 
remember  he  always  sat  here.  It  is  affecting, 
like  a  soldier's  sword  and  his  horse.  But,  my 
dear  little  Margaret,  my  poor  child,  you  cannot 
leave  it  always  here  blocking  up  the  way." 

"Dear  papa's  chair !"  said  Miss  Grace,  put- 
ting her  hand  caressingly  upon  it ;  and  then  she 
touched  the  back  with  her  cheek,  as  she  had 
touched  Sir  Ludovic's  face.  "  Poor  dear  old 
chair!  never  again  to  be  what  it  has  been,  never 
again — " 

"Yes,  poor  old  thing,  I  should  not  like  to  see 
it  sent  away  to  a  lumber-room,"  said  Mrs.  Bel- 
lingham. "But  there  will  be  so  many  changes, 
that  it  is  sad  to  contemplate !  Now,  Margaret, 
tell  me  all  about  it :  how  was  he  seized  ?  You 
did  not  say  anything  about  a  fit,  and  he  does 
not  look  as  if  there  had  been  any  fit,  No  sugar 
for  me,  dear.  Were  you  with  him  when  it  hap- 
pened ?  or  how  did  it  come  on  ?  We  must 
know  all  this,  you  know,  before  we  see  the  doc- 
tor. I  shall  make  it  a  point  of  going  fully  over 
the  case  with  the  doctor.  One  knows  then  what 
we  have  to  expect,  and  how  long  a  course  it  is 
likely  to  run." 

"Jean!"  cried  Margaret,  aghast  with  grief 
and  horror;  "I  thought  you  thought  he  was 
looking  well!  You  said  you  would  not  have 
known  there  was  anything  the  matter.  You 
said — " 

"My  dear  child,  did  you  expect  me  to  tell 
him  that  I  saw  death  in  his  face  ?     Is  that  the 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


sort  of  thing,  do  you  think,  to  let  the  patient 
know?  Do  you  expect  me  to  say  to  him — 
Good  gracious,  child !  what  is  the  matter  ? 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"You  must  pour  out  your  tea  for  yourselves," 
said  Margaret;  "I  am  going  to  papa.  Oh,  if 
you  think  he  is  so  ill,  how  can  you  sit  and  take 
your  tea  ?  How  can  you  sit  down  and  talk,  and 
tell  him  you  will  come  after  dinner,  as  if  it  was 
nothing?  You  cannot  mean  it!"  said  the  poor 
girl,  "you  cannot  mean  it!  Oh!  how  can  you 
tell,  that  have  seen  him  only  once?  The  doctor 
thinks  he  will  soon  be  well  again  ;  and  Ludovic 
— Ludovic  is  as  old  as  you  are — he  never  said  a 
word  tome." 

"Ludovic  thought  j*ou  were  too  young  to  be 
told ;  lie  thought  it  was  best  for  us  to  come 
first;  and  there  are  some  doctors  that  will  nev- 
er tell  you  the  truth.  I  don't  hold  with  that.  I 
would  not  blurt  it  out  to  the  patient  to  affect  his 
spirits,  but  I  would  tell  the  family  always.  Now, 
Margaret,  you  must  not  go  to  papa  with  that  cry- 
ing face.  Sit  down  and  compose  yourself.  He 
is  very  well ;  he  has  got  old  John.  You  don't 
suppose  that  I  am  looking  for  anything  imme- 
diate— " 

"Take  this;  it  will  do  you  good,"  said  Miss 
Leslie,  forcing  upon  Margaret  her  own  cup  of 
tea.     "I  will  pour  out  another  for  myself." 

Margaret  put  it  away  from  her  with  out- 
stretched hands.  She  turned  from  them  with 
an  anguish  of  disgust  and  impatience  which  Jean 
and  Grace  had  done  nothing  to  deserve,  feeling 
only  the  justice  of  that  one  advice  not  to  go  to 
her  father  with  her  countenance  convulsed  with 
weeping.  But  where  could  she  go?  She  had 
been  frightened,  and  had  recovered  from  her 
fright ;  had  taken  comfort  from  what  the  doctor 
said,  and  joyful  consolation  from  the  comments 
of  her  sisters  on  the  old  man's  Appearance :  but 
where  was  she  to  seek  any  comfort  now  ?  With 
her  heart  sick,  and  fluttering,  tingling,  with  the 
stroke  she  had  received  so  unexpectedly,  the 
girl  turned  to  the  window,  where  at  least  she 
could  conceal  her  "  crying  face,"  and  stood  there 
gazing  out,  seeing  nothing,  stunned  with  sudden 
misery,  and  not  knowing  what  to  do.  But  the 
intolerable  pain  into  which  she  had  been  plunged 
all  at  once  did  not  deaden  her  faculties.  Though 
her  mind  was  in  such  commotion,  she  could  not 
help  hearing  all  that  went  on  behind  her.  Jean 
and  Grace  were  quite  free  from  any  bewilder- 
ment of  pain.  They  were  glad  to  have  their 
tea  after  their  journey,  and  they  discussed  every- 
thing with  a  little  excitement  and  expectation, 
just  touched  by  solemnity.  To  be  thus  sum- 
moned to  their  father's  death-bed,  to  be  placed 
in  the  foremost  places  at  this  tragic  act  which 
was  about  to  be  accomplished,  themselves  shar- 
ing in  the  importance  of  it,  and  with  a  claim 
upon  the  sympathy  and  respect  of  the  world  in 
consequence,  gave  Jean  and  Grace  a  sense  of 
solemn  dignity.  When  the  heart  is  not  deeply 
affected,  and  when,  indeed,  your  connection  with 
the  dying  is,  as  it  were,  an  official  one,  it  is 
difficult  not  to  feel  thus  advanced  in  moral  im- 
:  portance  by  attendance  on  a  death-bed.  It  was 
Miss  Leslie  who  felt  this  most. 

"  How  sad  to  think  of  poor  dearest  papa  on 
that  bed  from  which  he  will  never  rise ! "  she 
said,  shaking  her  head;  "and  when  one  re- 
members how  active  he  used  to  be!     But  we 


have  nothing   to   murmur  at.      He   has   been 
spared  to  us  for  so  many  years — " 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Grace?"  said 
Mrs.  Bellingham.  "I  am  older  than  you  are, 
but  I  never  can  remember  a  time  when  papa  was 
active ;  and,  to  be  sure,  he  is  an  old  man,  but 
not  half  so  old  as  grandpapa,  whom  I  recollect 
quite  distinctly.     He  was  active,  if  you  like." 

"At  such  a  time,  dearest  Jean,  why  should 
we  dispute  about  words  ?  Of  course,  you  are 
right ;  I  am  always  making  mistakes,"  said  Miss 
Grace;  "but  all  the  same,  we  have  no  right  to 
complain.  Many,  many  years  we  have  had  him 
longer  than  numbers  of  people  I  could  mention. 
Indeed,  to  have  a  father  living  is  rare  at  our 
time  of  life." 

"That's  true,  at  least,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham. 
"I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  keep  on  that  dress. 
I  told  you  in  Edinburgh  that  a  silk  gown  with  a 
train  was  preposterous  to  travel  in,  and  it  is 
quite  impossible  for  a  sick-room.  I  shall  p 
on  a  soft  merino,  that  does  not  make  any  noise 
Merino  is  never  too  warm,  even  in  the  height  01 
summer,  at  Earl's-hall." 

"I  have  nothing  but  black,  and  I  could  not 
put  on  black  to  hurt  poor  papa's  feelings',"  said 
Grace.  "He  would  think  we  were  getting  our 
mourning  already.  Indeed,  when  you  think  how 
long  we  will  have  to  wear  it  without  putting  it 
on  a  day  too  soon — " 

"As  if  he  would  remark  what  you  are  wear- 
ing! But  I  must  go  and  see  that  Steward  has 
unpacked.  It  is  true  there  will  be  black  enough 
before  we  are  done  with  it,  and  once  in  mourn- 
ing, I  always  say  you  never  can  tell  when  you 
may  take  it  off,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham  ;  "  but  I 
will  not  let  you  come  into  the  sick-room  in  that 
rustling  dress.  He  was  always  fidgety  at  the 
best  of  times.  He  would  not  put  up  with  it. 
There's  your  muslins,  if  you  are  not  afraid  of 
taking  cold;  but  I  won't  have  silk,"  said  the 
elder  sister,  peremptory  and  decided. 

Miss  Leslie  came  to  Margaret,  and  put  an 
arm  round  her  where  she  stood  at  the  window, 
as  the  other  went  away. 

"Dearest  child,  you  must  not  cry  so,"  she 
said.  "He  is  not  suffering,  you  know.  What 
a  blessing  that  there  is  no  pain,  that  he  is  com- 
fortable, as  he  says.  Dear  Jean  seems  to  be  a 
little  hard,  but  she  means  it  very  well ;  and  now 
that  we  are  here,  you  will  be  able  to  rest ;  you 
will  not  have  so  much  responsibility." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  I  want  to  rest?    am  I 
thinking  of  myself?     It  is  because  you  are  all 
wrong — you  are  mistaken.     The  doctor  did  not- 
say  so.     It  is  not  true !" 

Miss  Leslie  shook  her  head,  and  gave  a  little 
moan. 

"  Dearest  child  !"  she  said,  putting  her  cheek 
against  Margaret's  wet  and  tear-stained  cheek. 
"But  I  must  go  and  see  about  my  things  too," 
she  said.  "Steward  never  thinks  of  me  till  she 
has  done  everything  for  Jean.  I  am  very  glad 
of  that,  of  course  ;  it  is  just  what  I  like  ;  but  it 
gives  me  a  little  more  to  do.  Come  with  me, 
dear,  and  tell  me  what  to  put  on.  It  will  amuse 
you  a  little  to  see  my  things,  though  I  haven't 
got  anything  new  —  not  a  thing  all  this  year. 
You  see,  dear  Ludie  told  us  of  dearest  papa's 
uncertain  state  of  health,  and  what  was  the 
good  ?  There  is  nothing  more  provoking  than 
having  got  a  supply  of  colored  things  just  before 


66 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


a  long  mourning.  Alas !  it  is  bad  enough  with- 
out that,"  said  Grace,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

After  they  had  made  their  toilet,  the  ladies 
dined,  and  not  without  appetite,  while  Margaret 
sat  unable  to  swallow  a  morsel,  unable  to  escape 
to  her  father's  room  for  the  tears  which  she 
could  not  suppress.  In  the  mean  time  it  was 
Bell  that  had  taken  the  place  of  watcher.  Bell's 
heart  was  heavy  too ;  but  she  exerted  herself  to 
amuse  her  patient,  to  tell  him  all  the  circum- 
stances of  his  daughters'  arrival. 

"They've  but  a  box  apiece,"  said  Bell,  "and 
that's  wonderful  for  our  ladies.  But  they've 
minded  this  time  that  it's  not  that  easy  to  get 
trunks  up  our  stairs.  They've  minded  and 
they've  no  minded,  Sir  Ludovic  :  for  Mrs.  Bel- 
lin'am's  is  that  big  that  no  mortal,  let  alone 
John,  could  get  it  up  the  stair.  Her  woman  has 
had  a'  the  things  to  carry  up  in  armfu's.  And 
oh,  the  heap  o'  things  a  leddy  wants  when  she 
gangs  about!  It's  just  a  bondage — gowns  for 
the  mornin'  and  gowns  for  the  evenin',  and 
gowns  to  put  on  when  she's  dressing  hersel',  and 
as  mony  fykes  of  laces  and  collars,  and  caps  for 
her  head — if  they  ca'  thae  vanities  caps." 

Sir  Ludovic  laughed. 

"  Poor  Jean  and  poor  Grace  !"  he  said.  "  I 
hope  they  think  mourning  is  becoming  to  them, 
Bell,  for  they  will  not  stint  me  of  a  ribbon  ;  I 
know  my  daughters  too  well  for  that.  They 
will  give  me  everything  that  is  due  to  me,  to  the 
very  last  scrap  of  crape." 

"They'll  do  that,  Sir  Ludovic,"  said  Bell,  di- 
vided between  her  desire  to  humor  him  and  her 
wish  to  keep  off  painful  subjects ;  "  the  ladies 
have  never  shown  any  want  o'  respect.  But  Miss 
Grace  was  aye  fond  of  bright  colors.  They're 
no  so  young  as  I  mind  them,  but  they're  weel- 
fa'ured  women  still.  The  Leslies  were  aye  a 
handsome  family.  They  take  it  from  yourself, 
Sir  Ludovic,  if  1  may  make  so  bold." 

"  Not  entirely  from  me,"  said  Sir  Ludovic, 
with  a  smile.  He  did  not  dislike  the  allusion 
to  his  good  looks,  even  though  he  was  dying. 
"Their  mother,  whom  you  scarcely  remember, 
was  a  handsome  woman.  We  were  not  a  bad- 
looking  couple,  people  said.  Ah  !  that's  a  long 
time  ago,  Bell." 

"  Deed  and  it's  a  long  time,  Sir  Ludovic ;"  but 
Bell  did  not  know  what  to  say  on  this  subject, 
for  the  interpolation  of  a  third  Lady  Leslie  no 
doubt  made  the  matter  somewhat  more  difficult. 
Probably  this  struck  Sir  Ludovic  too,  and  he 
was  in  the  condition  when  human  nature  is  glad 
to  seek  a  little  help  from  another,  or  sympathy 
at  least,  no  help  being  possible.  This  time  he 
sighed — which  was  a  thing  much  more  befitting 
than  laughter  on  a  dying  bed. 

"That's  a  strange  subject  altogether,"  he  said ; 
"any  meeting  after  so  long  a  time  would  be 
strange.  If  she  had  been  at  one  end  of  the 
world  and  I  at  the  other,  there  would  be  many 
changes  even  then.  Would  we  understand  each 
other  ?"  Sir  Ludovic  had  ceased  to  speak  to 
Bell.  He  was  musing  alone,  talking  with  him- 
self. "And  the  difference  must  be  greater  than 
any  mortal  separation.  Know  each  other  ?  Of 
course  we  must  know  each  other,  she  and  I ;  but 
the  question  is,  will  we  understand  each  other?" 

"  Eh,  Sir  Ludovic,"  said  Bell,  "it  was  God's 
will  that  parted  you,  not  your  ain.  There  would 
be  fault  on  one  side  or  the  other,  if  my  lady  had 


been  in,  say  America,  a'  this  time,  and  you  at 
hame  ;  but  she's  been  in — heaven  ;  that  makes 
a'  the  difference." 

"Does  it?"  he  said;  "that's  just  what  I 
want  to  be  sure  of,  Bell.  Time  has  made  great 
changes  on  me.  If  I  find  her  just  where  she 
was  when  she  left  me,  I  have  gone  long  beyond 
that ;  and  if  she  has  gone  on  too,  where  is  she  ? 
and  how  shall  we  meet,  each  with  our  new  ex- 
periences which  the  other  does  not  know  ?" 

Bell  was  very  much  perplexed  by  this  inquiry. 
It  had  not  occurred  to  her  own  mind.  "Eh,  Sir 
Ludovic,"  she  said,  "I  am  no  the  one,  the  like 
o'  me,  to  clear  up  sic  mysteries.  But  what  new 
things  can  the  lady  meet  with  in  heaven,  but 
just  the  praise  o'  God  and  the  love  o'  God  ?  and 
that  doesna  distract  the  mind." 

"Ah,  Bell!  but  I've  met  with  a  great  many 
more  things  since  I  parted  with  her;  and  then," 
he  said,  with  a  gleam  in  his  eyes  which  might 
have  been  half  comic  in  its  embarrassment  had 
the  circumstances  been  different,  "there  is — my 
little  Peggy's  mother,  poor  thing." 

Bell  sat  down,  in  her  confusion  and  bewilder- 
ment, by  the  bedside,  and  pondered.  "  I'm  think- 
ing," she  said,  "  that  my  late  leddy,  Miss  Mar- 
gret's  mother,  will  be  the  one  that  will  maist 
cling  to  ye  when  a's  done." 

"Poor  little  thing!"  he  said,  softly,  with  a 
smile  on  his  face  —  "poor  little  thing!  She 
should  have  seen  me  safe  out  of  the  world,  and 
then  had  a  life  of  her  own.  That  would  have 
made  a  balance ;  but  how  are  we  to  know  what 
my  wife  thinks  ?  You  see,  we  know  nothing — 
we  know  nothing.  And  it  is  very  hard  to  tell, 
when  people  have  been  parted  so  long,  and 
things  have  happened,  how  they  are  to  get  on 
when  they  meet  again." 

(Sir  Ludovic,  perhaps,  was  a  little  confused  in 
his  mind  as  to -which  of  the  Ladies  Leslie  he 
meant  when  he  said  "my  wife;"  but  at  all 
events  it  was  not  the  last  one,  the  "poor  little 
thing,"  Margaret's  mother,  who  was  to  him  as 
a  child.) 

"Sir  Ludovic,  there's  neither  marrying  nor 
giving  in  marriage  there,"  said  Bell,  solemnly. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  herself  certainly  that 
old  John  would  not  form  part  of  her  paradise ; 
but  then  there  was  no  complication  in  their  rela- 
tions. "And  you  maunna  think  of  things  like 
that,"  she  added,  reverently,  "eh,  Sir  Ludovic? 
There's  One  we  should  a'  think  of.  And  if  He's 
pleased,  what  does  it  matter  for  anything  else  in 
the  wide  world  ?" 

"Ay,  Bell;  that's  very  true,  Bell,"  he  said, 
acquiescing,  though  scarcely  remarking  what  she 
said.  But  the  dying  will  rarely  see  things  with 
the  solemnity  which  the  living  feel  to  be  appro- 
priate to  their  circumstances,  neither  does  the 
approach  of  death  concentrate  our  thoughts  on 
our  most  important  concerns,  as  we  all  fondly 
hope  it  may,  without  difficulty  or  struggle.  "I 
would  like  to  know — what  my  wife  thinks,"  he 
said. 

"What  are  you  talking  so  much  about?"  said 
Mrs.  Bellingham,  coming  in.  "  I  heard  your 
tongues  going  all  the  time  of  dinner.  Is  that 
you,  Bell  ?  How  are  you,  Bell  ?  I  was  won- 
dering not  to  have  seen  you  before ;  but  I  don't 
think  you  should  let  papa  talk  so  much  when  he 
is  so  weak.  Indeed,  I  don't  think  you  should 
talk,    papa.      It    is    always    exhausting    your 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


67 


Strength.  Just  lie  quiet  and  keep  quite  still,  till 
you  get  your  strength  back." 

ISir  Ludovic  turned  round  and  looked  at  Bell 
with  a  glimmer  of  fun,  about  which  this  time 
there  could  be  no  mistake,  in  his  eyes.  Bell  did 
not  know  what  it  meant.  She  did  not  see  any 
fun  in  Mrs.  Bellingham's  orders,  nor  in  the  way 
in  which  she  herself  was  speedily,  noiselessly 
displaced  from  the  position  she  had  taken.  But 
so  it  was.  Bell  was  put  out  of  the  way  very  in- 
nocently and  naturally,  and,  with  a  soft  flood  of 
unrostling  merino  about  her,  Mrs.  Bellingham 
took  possession.  She  made  no  sound ;  she  was 
quite  fresh  in  dress,  in  looks,  in  spirits. 

"I  have  made  Margaret  tell  me  all  about  how 
it  came  on,  and  cheered  her  up,  the  silly  little 
thing.  She  has  never  seen  any  illness ;  she  is 
like  to  cry  if  you  only  look  at  her.  But  we  must 
make  her  more  practical,"  said  the  elder  sister. 
Grace  was  in  a  blue  gown  with  rose-colored  rib- 
bons. She  came  in,  stealing  with  noiseless  feet, 
a  much  slimmer  shadow  than  her  sister,  and 
bent  over  the  bed,  and  put  her  cheek  to  Sir  Ludo- 
vic's  again,  and  kissed  his  hand  and  murmured, 
"Dearest  papa!"  If  he  had  been  in  the  article 
of  death  Sir  Ludovic  must  have  laughed. 

But  Margaret  did  not  appear.  She  could  not 
present  herself  with  her  swollen  eyes  and  pale 
cheeks.  Oh  !  if  Jean  and  Grace  had  but  stayed 
away — had  they  but  left  him  to  herself,  to  Bell, 
and  John,  who  loved  him !  But  she  could  not 
creep  into  her  corner  in  her  father's  room  while 
the  ladies  were  there,  filling  it  up,  taking  pos- 
session of  him.  Her  heart  was  as  heavy  as  lead 
in  her  bosom ;  it  lay  there  like  a  stone.  People 
will  sometimes  speak  of  the  heart  as  if  it  were 
a  figure  of  speech.  Margaret  felt  hers  lying, 
broken,  bleeding,  heavy — a  weight  that  beat  her 
to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Margaret  roamed  about  the  house,  unable 
to  take  any  comfort  or  find  any.  Jeanie  found 
her  crying  in  the  long  room  when  she  went  to 
remove  the  remains  of  the  dinner;  for  John  had 
a  hundred  things  to  do,  and  showed  his  excite- 
ment by  an  inability  to  keep  to  his  ordinary 
work. 

"Oh,  Miss  Margret,  dinna  be  so  cast  down  !" 
Jeanie  said,  with  tender  sympathy,  brushing  the 
tears  from  her  own  eyes. 

"What  can  I  be  but  cast  down,"  she  cried, 
"when  papa  is —  Oh,  Jeanie,  what  does  Bell 
say?  Does  Bell  think  he  is — "  Dying,  the  girl 
meant  to  say,  but  to  pronounce  the  word  was 
impossible  to  her. 

"Oh,  Miss  Margret,"  said  Jeanie;  "what 
does  it  matter  what  Bell  says ;  how  can  she 
ken?  and  the  doctor  he  says  quite  different — " 

This  was  a  betrayal  of  all  that  Margaret  had 
feared  ;  Bell,  too,  was  then  of  the  same  opinion. 
The  poor  girl  stole  to  the  door  of  her  father's 
room,  and  stood  there  for  a  moment  listening  to 
the  easy  flow  of  Mrs.  Bellingham's  dogmas,  and 
Grace's  sigh  of  "Dearest  papa!"  and  she  heard 
him  laugh,  and  say  something  in  his  own  natu- 
ral tone.     Would  he  laugh  if  he  were — dying  ? 

"Come  in,  Miss  Margret,"  said  John,  com- 
ing through  the  dressing-room,  this  time  with 


some  extra  pillows  (for  he  might  want  to  have 
his  head  higher,  John  thought). 

"Oh,  I  cannot — I  cannot  bear  it!"  cried 
Margaret,  turning  away.  He  put  his  large  old 
hand  softly  upon  her  arm. 

"  My  bonnie  leddy !"  he  said.  He  would  not 
have  said  it,  Margaret  felt,  if  there  had  been  any 
hope.  Then  she  went  out  in  her  despair,  rest- 
less, not  knowing  where  to  seek  relief  from  the 
pain  in  her  heart,  which  was  so  sore,  and  which 
could  not  be  shaken  off.  She  said  to  herself 
that  she  could  not  bear  it.  It  was  her  first  ex- 
perience of  the  intolerable.  The  fine  weather 
had  broken  which  had  so  favored  the  drawing, 
and  the  wind  was  moaning  about  the  old  house, 
prophesying  rain.  With  another  pang  in  her 
heart — not  that  she  was  thinking  of  Rob,  but 
only  of  the  contrast  between  that  light-hearted- 
ness  and  her  present  despair,  she  stumbled 
through  the  potato  furrows,  past  the  place  where 
she  had  spent  so  many  pleasant  hours,  thinking 
no  evil — though  the  evil  she  remembered  must 
have  been  in  existence  all  the  same — and  made 
her  way  into  the  wood.  There  was  shelter 
there,  and  no  one  would  see  her.  The  trees 
were  all  vocal  with  those  sighings  of  melancholy 
cadence  that  are  never  long  absent  from  the 
Scotch  fir-woods.  The  wind  came  sweeping 
over  them,  with  one  great  sigh  after  another, 
like  the  waves  of  the  sea :  and  she  sighed,  too, 
in  heaviness.  Oh,  if  she  could  but  sigh  deep 
enough,  like  the  wind,  to  get  that  burden  oft'  her 
breast !  Margaret  sat  down  on  a  damp  knoll, 
with  all  the  firs  rising  up  round  her  like  a  con- 
gregation of  shadows,  and  the  wind  sweeping 
with  long  complaint,  sadder  and  sadder  over 
their  melancholy  branches :  and  gazed  at  the 
gray  old  house  through  her  tears.  How  differ- 
ent it  had  looked  in  the  morning  sunshine,  with 
her  father  sitting  among  his  books,  and  no  evil 
near!  All  the  color  and  light  had  gone  out  of 
it  now ;  it  was  gray  as  death,  pale,  solemn — the 
old  tower  and  gables  rising  against  a  sky  scarce- 
ly less  gray  than  they  were,  the  trees  swaying 
wildly  about,  the  clouds .  rolling  together  iu 
masses  across  the  colorless  sky. 

It  was  not  a  time  or  a  place  to  cheer  any  one. 
All  the  severity  of  aspect,  which  melts  so  com- 
pletely out  of  a  Scotch  landscape  with  the  shin- 
ing of  the  sun,  had  come  out  in  fullest  force. 
The  trees  looked  darker  in  their  leafage,  the 
house  paler  in  its  grayness,  than  houses  and  trees 
are  anywhere  else.  But  Margaret  did  not  make 
any  comparisons.  She  knew  no  landscape  half 
so  well.  She  was  not  disposed  to  find  fault  with 
it,  or  wish  it  more  lovely.  And  for  this  moment 
she  was  not  thinking  of  the  landscape,  but  of 
what  was  going  on  in  that  room,  where  she  could 
see  a  little  glimmer  of  fire-light  at  the  window. 
Both  John  and  Bell  thought  it  natural  and  seem- 
ly, when  there  was  illness  in  the  house,  that  there 
should  be  a  fire.  Dying !  oh,  the  chill  and  mys- 
terious terror  of  the  word ;  lying  there  smiling, 
but  soon,  perhaps  at  any  moment,  Margaret 
thought,  in  her  inexperience,  to  be  gone  out  of 
reach,  out  of  sight !  he  who  had  always  been  at 
hand  to  be  appealed  to  in  every  difficulty,  to  be 
greeted  morning  and  evening!  he  who  was  al- 
ways smiling  at  her,  "making  a  fool  of  her," 
as  she  had  so  often  complained.  Perhaps  there 
is  no  desolation  so  complete  as  the  shrinking  and 
gasp  of  the  young  soul  when  it  first  comes  thus 


GS 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


within  sight,  within  realization,  of  death.  If  it 
had  been  she  who  had  to  die,  Margaret  wotdd 
not  have  found  it  so  hard.  She  would  have  been 
ineffably,  childishly,  consoled  by  the  thought  of 
the  flowers  with  which  she  would  be  covered, 
and  the  weeping  of  "all  the  house,"  and  the 
broken  hearts  of  those  whom  she  would  leave  be- 
hind ;  but  nothing  of  this  comforted  her  now. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  misery  took  hold 
upon  her — a  thing  that  would  not  be  shaken  off, 
could  not  be  staved  aside.  She  sat  at  the  foot 
of  the  big  fir-tree,  gazing  with  wide  eyes  at  the 
gray  old  house  which  was  like  her  father,  who 
was  dying.  The  tears  gathered  and  fell,  minute 
by  minute,  from  her  eyes,  blinding  her,  then 
showing  clearer  than  ever,  as  they  fell,  the  old 
pale  outline,  the  ruddy  glimmer  in  that  window 
where  he  was  lying.  Why  did  she  not  rush  to 
him,  to  be  with  him  every  moment  that  remain- 
ed ?  But  she  could  not  bear  it.  She  could  not 
go  and  watch  for  that  coming.  To  have  it  over, 
to  get  through  the  unimaginable  anguish  any- 
how, at  any  cost,  seemed  the  best  thing,  the  only 
thing  that  remained  for  her.  She  had  not  heard 
any  one  coming,  being  too  much  rapt  in  her  own 
thoughts  to  pay  attention  to  what  was  going  on 
around  her ;  and  indeed  the  moaning  of  the 
trees  and  the  sweep  of  the  wind  were  enough  to 
silence  all  other  sounds. 

Tims  Margaret  was  taken  entirely  by  surprise, 
when  a  well-known  voice  over  her  head  sudden- 
ly addressed  her. 

"Miss  Margaret!"  Rob  Glen  said.  He  was 
greatly  surprised  and  very  glad,  having  heard 
of  the  arrival,  which  he  feared  would  put  a  stop 
to  the  possibility  of  his  visits.  But  then  he  add- 
ed, in  anxious  tones,  "What  is  the  matter?  you 
are  crying.  What  has  happened  ?"  He  thought, 
so  miserable  were  her  looks,  that  Sir  Ludovic 
was  dead,  and  it  was  with  a  natural  impulse  of 
tenderness  and  pity  that  the  young  man  sud- 
denly knelt  clown  beside  her  and  took  her  hand 
quietly  between  his  own. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Margaret,  with  a  sob;  "not 
that,  not  yet !  but  they  tell  me — they  tell  me — " 
She  could  not  go  any  farther  for  tears. 

Rob  did  not  say  anything,  but  he  put  his  lips 
to  her  hand,  and  looked  anxiously  in  her  face. 
Margaret  could  not  look  at  him  again  —  could 
not  speak.  She  was  blind  and  inarticulate  with 
tears.  She  only  knew  that  he  wept  too,  and 
that  seemed  to  make  them  one. 

"Did you  hear  that  ?"  she  said  ;  "  is  that  what 
everybody  says  ?     I  think  it  will  kill  me  too !" 

Rob  Glen  had  no  premeditated  plan.  His 
heart  ached  for  her,  so  desolate,  so  young,  under 
the  moaning  firs.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  un- 
consciously, holding  her  fast. 

"Oh,  my  poor  darling!"  he  said,  "my  love! 
I  would  die  to  keep  any  trouble  from  you!" 

Margaret  was  entirely  overpowered  with  the 
sorrow  and  the  sympathy.  She  leaned  her  head 
upon  him  unawares ;  she  felt  his  arm  support 
her,  and  that  there  was  a  vague  comfort  in  it. 
She  cried  and  sobbed  without  any  attempt  to  re- 
strain herself.  No  criticism  was  here,  no  formal 
consolations,  nothing  to  make  her  remember  that 
now  she  was  a  woman,  and  must  not  abandon 
herself  like  a  child  to  her  misery.  He  only  wept 
with  her,  and  after  a  while  began  to  kiss  her 
hair  and  her  pale  cheeks,  murmuring  over  her, 
"My  Margaret,  my  poor  darling !"    She  did  not 


hear  or  heed  what  he  said.  She  was  conscious 
of  nothing  but  anguish,  with  a  vague,  faint  relief 
in  it,  a  lessening  of  the  burden,  a  giving  way  of 
the  iron  band  that  had  seemed  to  be  about  her 
heart. 

When  this  passion  of  weeping  was  spent,  the 
evening  had  fallen  into  dusk.  The  house  had 
become  grayer,  paler  than  ever ;  the  glimmer  of 
the  window  more  red ;  the  trees  about  were  like 
ghosts,  looming  indistinctly  through  the  gloom  ; 
and  Rob  was  kneeling  by  her  with  his  arms  round 
her,  her  head  pillowed  against  him,  his  face  close 
to  hers.  There  did  not  seem  anything  strange 
in  it  to  poor  Margaret.  He  was  very,  very  kind  ; 
he  had  wept,  too,  breaking  his  heart  like  her ;  it 
seemed  all  so  natural,  so  simple.  And  she  was  a 
little  relieved,  a  little  consoled. 

"Darling,"  he  was  saying,  "I  don't  think  it 
can  be  quite  true.  The  doctor  would  not  de- 
ceive me,  and  he  did  not  say  so.  Who  should 
know  best — they  who  have  just  come,  or  we  who 
have  been  here  all  the  time  ?  Oh,  my  sweet, 
don't  break  your  dear  heart ! — that  would  break 
mine  too.  I  don't  think  it  can  be  so  bad  as  they 
say." 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  do  you  think  there  is 
any  hope?"  said  Margaret. 

This  gave  her  strength  to  stir  a  little,  to  move 
from  the  warm  shelter  in  which  she  found  her- 
self. But  he  kept  her  close  to  him  with  a  gentle 
pressure  of  his  arm. 

"Yes,  let  us  hope,"  he  said;  "he  is  not  so 
old,  and  he  is  not  \ery  ill.  You  told  me  he  was 
not  suffering — " 

"No — he  ought  to  know  better  than  they  do; 
he  said  he  was  not  ill.  Oh,  I  do  not  think  it 
can  be  so  bad,"  said  Margaret,  raising  herself 
up,  "and  you — don't  think  so,  Mr.  Glen?" 

"Do  you  call  me  Mr.  Glen  still?"  he  said, 
with  his  lips  close  to  her  ear.  "Oh,  my  dar- 
ling, don't  tempt  me  to  wish  harm  to  Sir  Ludo- 
vic. If  I  may  only  comfort  you  when  you  are 
in  trouble — if  I  am  to  be  nothing  to  you  when 
you  are  happy — " 

"Oh!"  said  Margaret,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "do 
you  think  I  am  happy  yet  ?  I  am  not  quite  so 
wretched,  perhaps ;  but  I  shall  never  be  happy 
till  papa  is  out  of  danger,  till  he  is  well  again, 
sitting  in  his  chair  witli  his  books.  Oh,  you  do 
not  say  anything  now !  You  think  that  will 
never  be — " 

"And  I  working  at  my  drawing,"  he  said. 
He  did  not  want  to  deceive  her,  and  his  voice 
was  husky;  but  he  could  not  do  other  than  hu- 
mor her,  whatever  shape  her  fancy  might  take. 
"I  finishing  my  drawing,  and  making  it  more 
like  him  ;  and  my  sweet  Margaret  sitting  by  me, 
not  trying  to  escape  from  me :  and  her  kind 
father  giving  us  his  blessing — " 

"Oh,"  Margaret  cried,  starting  away  from 
him,  "it  is  quite  dark,  it  is  quite  late,  Mr. 
Glen." 

"Yes,  darling,"  he  said,  rising  reluctantly, 
"I  must  take  you  in  now;  it  is  too  cold  and 
too  late  for  you,  though  it  has  been  better  than 
the  brightest  day  to  me." 

"  I  thought  you  were  sorry  for  me,"  said  Mar- 
garet. "I  thought  you  were  unhappy  too. 
Oh,  were  vou  only  glad  because  I  was  in  trou- 
ble, Mr.  Glen  ?" 

There  was  a  poignant  tone  of  pain  in  the 
question  which   encouraged  Rob.     He   caught 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


CD 


her  hand  in  his,  and  drew  it  through  his  arm 
and  held  her  fast. 

"You  don't  know,"  he  said,  "because  you 
are  so  young,  and  love  is  new  to  you.  You 
don't  know  that  a  man  can  be  happy  in  his 
worst  misery  if  it  brings  him  close,  close  to  the 
girl  he  loves." 

Margaret  did  not  say  a  word.  She  did  not 
understand :  but  yet  did  not  she  feel,  too,  a 
vague  bliss  that  overwhelmed  her  in  the  midst 
of  her  sorrow?  The  relief  that  had  stolen  over 
her,  was  it  real  hope,  or  only  a  vague  sense  that 
all  must  be  well  because  something  had  come 
into  her  life  which  made  her  happy?  She  was 
willing  to  go  with  Rob,  when  he  led  her,  the 
long  way  round,  through  the  wood,  and  by  the 
other  side  of  the  house.  He  did  not  want  to  be 
circumscribed  in  his  good-night  by  the  possible 
inspection  of  old  John  or  Bell.  "This  is  the 
best  way  for  you,"  he  said,  leading  her  very  ten- 
derly along  the  margin  of  the  wood.  All  the 
way  he  talked  to  her  in  a  whisper,  saying,  Mar- 
garet could  not  tell  what,  caressing  words  that 
were  sweet,  though  she  did  not  realize  the 
meaning  of  them ;  nor  did  she  in  the  least  re- 
sist his  "kindness."  She  suffered  him  to  hold 
her  hand  and  kiss  it,  and  call  her  all  the  tender 
names  he  could  think  of.  It  seemed  all  quite 
natural.  She  was  half  stunned  by  her  sorrow, 
half  intoxicated  by  this  strange  sweet  opiate  of 
tender  reassurances  and  impassioned  love.  It 
did  not  occur  to  her  to  make  any  response,  but 
neither  did  she  repulse  him.  She  trembled  with 
the  strangeness  and  the  naturalness,  the  conso- 
lation, the  tremor;  but  her  mind  was  so  much 
confused  between  pain  and  relief  that  she  could 
not  realize  what  this  new  thing  was. 

They  had  come  round  to  the  door  in  the 
court-yard  wall,  which  was  the  chief  entrance  to 
the  house,  and  here  Rob  reluctantly  parted  with 
her,  saying  a  hundred  good-byes,  and  venturing 
again,  ere  he  let  her  go,  to  kiss  her  cheek. 
Margaret  was  much  more  startled  now  than  she 
had  been  before,  and  made  haste  to  draw  her 
hands  from  his.  Then  she  heard  him  utter  a 
little  sharp,  short  exclamation,  and  he  tried  to 
hold  her  back.  But  she  was  not  thinking  of 
spectators.  She  stepped  on  through  the  door- 
way, which  was  open,  and  came  straight  upon 
some  one  who  was  coming  out.  It  did  not  oc- 
cur to  her  to  think  that  he  had  seen  this  parting, 
or  what  he  had  seen.  She  did  not  look  at  the 
stranger  at  all,  but  went  on  hurriedly  into  the 
court-yard.  Rob  had  dropped  her  hand  as  if  it 
had  been  a  stone.  This  surprised  her  a  little, 
but  nothing  else.  Any  necessity  for  conceal- 
ment, any  fear  of  being  seen,  had  not  entered 
into  Margaret's  confused  and  troubled  mind, 
troubled  with  more  than  grief  now,  with  a  kind 
of  bewilderment,  caused  by  this  something  new 
which  had  come  upon  her  unawares,  and  which 
she  did  not  understand. 

The  two  young  men  stood  together  outside. 
There  was  no  possibility  of  mistake,  or  chance 
that  they  might  be  unable  to  recognize  each 
other.  There  had  been  a  moment's  intense 
suspense,  and  then  Randal  Burnside,  coming  out 
from  his  evening  inquiries  after  Sir  Ludovic,  had 
discovered,  in  spite  of  himself,  the  discomfited  and 
abashed  lover.  Randal's  surprise  was  mingled 
with  a  momentary  pang  of  disappointment  and 
pain  to  think  so  young  a  creature  as  Margaret, 


and  so  sweet  a  creature,  should  have  thus  been 
found  returning  from  a  walk  with,  evidently,  her 
lover,  and  capable  of  dalliance  at  such  a  mo- 
ment, when  her  father  was  dying.  It  hurt  his 
ideal  sense  of  what  was  fit.  He  had  scarcely 
renewed  his  childish  acquaintance  with  her,  and 
had  no  right  to  be  disappointed.  What  did  it 
matter  to  him  whom  she  walked  with,  or  what 
was  the  fashion  of  her  wooing?  But  it  wound- 
ed him  to  class  this  delicate  Margaret  with  the 
village  lasses  and  their  "lads."  He  tried  not 
to  look  at  the  fellow,  not  to  surprise  her  secret. 
Heaven  knows,  he  had  no  desire  to  surprise  any- 
body's secret,  much  less  such  a  vulgar  one  as 
this.  But  his  eyes  were  quicker  than  his  will, 
and  he  had  seen  Rob  Glen  before  he  was  aware. 
This  gave  him  a  greater  shock  still.  He  stared 
with  a  kind  of  consternation,  then  gave  his  old 
acquaintance  a  hasty  nod,  and  went  on  much 
disturbed,  though  why  he  should  be  disturbed 
he  could  not  tell.  She  was  nothing  to  him — 
why  should  he  mind  ?  Poor  girl,  she  had  been 
neglected ;  there  had  been  no  one  to  train  her, 
to  tell  what  a  lady  should  do.  But  Randal  felt 
vexed  as  if  she  had  been  his  sister,  that  Marga- 
ret had  not  known  by  instinct  how  a  lady  should 
behave.  He  went  on  more  quickly  than  usual 
to  drive  it  out  of  his  mind. 

But  Rob  had  the  consciousness  of  guilt  in 
him,  and  could  not  take  it  so  lightly.  He 
thought  Randal  would  betray  him ;  no  doubt 
Randal  had  it  in  his  power  to  betray  him ;  and, 
on  the  whole,  it  might  be  better  to  guard  the 
discovered  secret  by  a  confidence,  lie  went 
hastily  after  the  other,  making  his  way  among 
the  trees ;  but  he  had  called  him  two  or  three 
times  before  Randal  could  be  got  to  stop.  When 
at  last  he  did  so,  he  turned  round  with  a  half- 
angry  "Well!"  Randal  did  not  want  the  con- 
fidence ;  he  did  not  care  to  play  the  part  of  con- 
venient friend  to  such  a  hero ;  he  was  angry  to 
find  himself  in  circumstances  which  obliged  him 
to  listen  to  an  explanation.  Rob  came  panting 
after  him  through  the  gathering  dark. 

" Mr.  Burnside,"  he  said,  breathless,  "I  must 
speak  to  you.  I  am  sure  you  could  not  help 
seeing  who  it  was  that  went  in  as  you  came  out, 
or  what  was  between  her  and  me."  Rob  could 
not  help  a  movement  of  pride,  a  little  dilation 
and  expansion  of  his  breast. 

"I  had  no  wish  to  notice  anything,  or  any 
one,"  Randal  said;  "pray  believe  me  that  I 
never  pry  into  things  which  are  no  business  of 
mine." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  the  soul  of  honor,"  said 
Rob,  "but  it  is  better  you  should  know  the  cir- 
cumstances. Don't  think  she  had  come  out  to 
meet  me.  She  had  been  driven  out  by  despair 
about  her  father,  and  I  was  in  the  wood  by 
chance — I  declare  to  you,  by  chance.  I  might 
have  gone  there  to  see  the  light  in  her  window, 
that  was  all.  But  she  did  not  come  with  any 
idea  of  meeting  me." 

"This  is  quite  unnecessary,"  said  Randal; 
"I  expressed  no  opinion,  and  have  no  right  to 
form  one.  I  didn't  want  to  see,  and  I  don't 
want  to  know — " 

"I  perceive,  however," said  Rob,  "that  you 
do  not  approve  of  me,  and  won't  approve  of  me ; 
that  you  think  I  had  no  right  to  do  what  I  have 
done,  to  speak  to  Mar — " 

"Hold  your  tongue," said  Randal,  savagely; 


70 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


"what  do   you  mean  by  bringing  in  a  lady's 
name?" 

Rob  blushed  to  his  very  shoes  ;  that  he  should 
have  done  a  thing  which  evidently  some  private 
rule  in  that  troublesome  unwritten  code  of  a 
gentleman,  which  it  was  so  difficult  to  master  in 
all  its  details,  forbade,  was  worse  to  him  than  a 
crime.  The  annoyance  with  which  he  felt  this 
took  away  his  resentment  at  Randal's  tone. 

"Of  course  you  are  right," he  said  ;  "  1  made 
a  mistake ;  but,  Mr.  Burnside,  you  must  not 
judge  us  too  harshly.  We  have  been  thrown  in 
each  other's  way  all  day  long,  and  almost  every 
day.  They  have  allowed  us  to  be  together  so 
much,  that  we  were  encouraged  to  go  a  little  far- 
ther. And  she  was  very  unhappy,"  he  added, 
with  a  little  tremor  in  his  voice ;  "  not  to  console 
her  was  beyond  the  strength  of  man." 

How  Randal  would  have  liked  to  pitch  him 
over  the  hedge -row  into  a  flourishing  bed  of 
nettles  which  he  knew  to  be  thereabout!  But 
he  restrained  himself,  and  made  a  stiff  bow  in- 
stead. 

"  This  is  very  interesting,"  he  said,  "  no  doubt ; 
but  I  fail  to  see  what  I  have  to  do  with  it.  It 
was  not  my  fault  that  my  coming  was  at  so  in- 
discreet a  moment." 

"Then  I  may  ask  you  not  to  betray  us,"  said 
Rob;  "  the  circumstances  are  peculiar,  as  you 
will  easily  perceive.     I  should  not  wish — " 

"Really  this  is  doubly  unnecessary," said  Ran- 
dal, angrily;  "I  am  not  a  gossip,  nor  would  it 
occur  to  me  to  betray  any  one.  Is  not  this 
enough  ?" 

"I  should  have  liked  to  take  you  into  my  con- 
fidence," said  Rob,  "to  ask  your  advice — " 

"  My  advice  ?  It  could  not  be  of  much  use." 
But  why  should  he  be  angry?  Other  love  af- 
fairs had  been  confided  to  him,  and  he  had  not 
rejected  the  confidence ;  but  this  fellow  was  not 
his  friend,  and  it  was  a  dastardly  thing  to  take 
advantage  of  a  poor  little  girl  in  her  trouble. 
"I  am  no  more  a  judge  than  I  am  a  gossip,"  he 
said  ;  "  take  my  assurance  that  what  I  saw  shall 
be  precisely  as  if  I  had  not  seen  it.  Good- 
night," he  added,  abruptly,  turning  on  his  heel. 
Rob  found  himself  alone  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  feeling  somehow  shrunken  and  small,  he 
could  not  tell  why.  But  presently  there  burst 
upon  him  the  recollection,  the  realization  of  all 
that  had  happened,  and  Randal  Burnside's  im- 
plied contempt  (if  it  was  not  rather  envy)  ceased 
to  affect  him.  He  turned  down  the  path  across 
the  fields  where  he  had  first  met  Margaret,  in  a 
kind  of  half-delirious  triumph.  He  was  "in 
love"  too,  and  had  that  delight  quite  honestly,  if 
also  superficially,  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  his 
happiness.  To  be  in  love  with  the  girl  who  can 
make  your  fortune,  who  can  set  you  above  all 
slights  and  scorns,  and  give  you  all  the  good 
things  the  world  contains — is  not  that  the  most 
astounding  piece  of  good-fortune  to  a  poor  man  ? 
A  mercenary  courtship  is  always  despicable  ;  but 
to  woo  the  girl  whom  you  love,  notwithstanding 
that  she  has  the  advantage  of  you  in  worldly 
goods,  is  permissible,  nay,  laudable,  since  it 
shows  you  to  have  a  mind  far  above  prejudice. 
Rob  felt,  too,  that  he  had  got  this  crowning  gift 
of  fortune  in  the  most  innocent  and  disinterested 
way.  Had  it  been  Jeanie  whom  he  had  met  in 
trouble  —  Jeanie,  who  was  but  a  poor  servant- 
lass,  and  no  heiress,  and  with  whom  he  had  been 


once  in  love,  as  he  was  now  in  love  with  Marga- 
ret— his  tenderness  would  all  have  come  back  to 
him,  and  he  would  have  exerted  himself  to  con- 
sole her  in  the  self-same  way.  He  would  have 
done  it  by  instinct,  by  nature,  out  of  pure  pity 
and  affection ateness,  and  warm  desire  to  make 
her  happy, if  he  had  not  done  so  out  of  love. 
The  weeping  girl  would  have  been  irresistible  to 
him.  "And  thus  I  won  my  Genevieve,"  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  turned  homeward  in  an  intoxi- 
cation of  happiness.  His  success  went  to  his 
head  like  wine.  He  could  have  danced,  he  could 
have  sung,  as  he  went  along  the  darkling  path 
through  the  fields.  He  had  won  his  Margaret, 
the  prettiest,  the  sweetest  of  all  his  loves.  His 
heart  was  all  aglow  with  the  thought  of  her,  and 
melting  with  tenderness  over  her  tears  and  her 
grief.  His  beautiful  little  lady,  Margaret !  The 
others  had  been  but  essays  in  love.  He  did  not 
forget  them  ;  not  one  of  them  but  Rob  had  a 
kind  thought  for,  and  would  have  been  kind  to 
had  occasion  served,  Jeanie  among  the  rest.  He 
did  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that  it  had  ever 
occurred  to  him  to  marry  Jeanie.  She  would 
have  been  as  unsuitable  a  wife  for  a  minister  as 
for  a  prince.  He  had  not  meant  very  much  one 
way  or  other;  but  he  had  been  very  fond  of 
Jeanie,  and  she  of  him.  He  was  very  fond  of 
her  still ;  and  if  he  had  seen  her  cry  woidd  have 
been  as  ready  to  comfort  her  as  if  Margaret  did 
not  exist.  But  Margaret !  Margaret  was  the 
queen  of  all.  That  white,  soft,  lady's  hand!  Nev- 
er any  like  it  had  lingered  in  Rob's  before.  He 
was  as  happy  as  kings  very  seldom  are,  if  all 
tales  be  true,  and  was  no  more  ashamed  of  him- 
self than  if  he  had  been  a  young  monarch  giving 
a  throne  to  his  chosen,  as  soon  as  he  had  got 
clear  of  Randal  Burnside. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

Randal  returned  to  the  Manse  preoccupied 
and  abstracted,  his  mother  could  not  tell  why. 
He  brought  her  word  that  Sir  Ludovic  was  in 
the  same  condition  as  before,  neither  better  nor 
worse,  and  that  the  ladies  had  arrived ;  but  he 
told  no  more. 

"  Did  you  see  nobody  ?"  Mrs.  Burnside  asked. 
Perhaps  in  her  heart  she  had  hoped  that  her  son 
might  occupy  some  such  post  of  comforter  as 
Rob  Glen  had  assumed,  if  not  quite  in  the  same 
way. 

"I  saw  old  John,"  said  Randal;  "the  ladies 
were  with  their  father,  and  John  was  so  gruff 
that  I  fear  things  must  be  looking  badly.  He 
grumbled  behind  his  hand,  '  What  change  could 
they  expect  in  a  day?'  as  if  your  inquiries  irri- 
tated him.  I  don't  wonder  it'  they  do.  I  think 
I  should  be  worried  too  by  constant  questions,  if 
any  one  was  ill  who  belonged  to  me." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Randal," said  Mrs.  Burn- 
side ;  "  we  must  always  paj'  proper  respect.  You 
may  depend  upon  it,  Jean  and  Grace  are  capa- 
ble of  saying  that  we  paid  no  attention  at  all  if 
we  did  not  send  twice  a  day.  One  must  be  upon 
one's  p's  and  q's  with  such  people.  And  Mar- 
garet— you  saw  nothing  of  poor  little  Margaret  ? 
It  is  for  her  my  heart  bleeds.  It  is  more  a  ploy 
than  anything  else  for  Jean  and  Grace." 

The  same  remark  had  been  made  by  Bell  in 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


71 


the  vaulted  kitchen  the  very  same  night.  "It's 
just  a  ploy  for  the  leddies,"  Bell  said  ;  "  I  heard 
them  say  they  were  going  to  look  out  all  the  old 
tilings  in  the  high  room.  You'll  see  they'll  have 
a'  out,  and  make  their  regulations,  wha's  to  have 
this,  and  wha's  to  have  that ;  but  I  say  it  should 
all  go  to  Miss  Margret.  She'll  have  little  enough 
else  on  the  Leslie  side  of  the  house.  1*11  speak 
to  Mr.  Leslie  about  it.  He  has  not  muckle  to 
say,  but  he's  a  just  man." 

"A  wheen  auld  duds  and  rubbitsh,"  said 
John,  who  was  busy  preparing  still  another  tray- 
ful  of  provisions  for  his  beleaguered  city  up- 
stairs. 

"  Ay ;  but  leddies  think  muckle  o'  them,"  said 
Bell.  They  had  not  surmounted  their  sorrow, 
but  already  it  had  ceased  to  affect  them  as  a 
novelty,  and  all  the  inevitable  arrangements  had 
been  brought  nearer  by  the  arrival  of  the  visit- 
ors. These  arrangements,  are  they  not  the  sav- 
ing of  humanity,  which  without  them  must  have 
suffered  so  much  more  from  the  perpetual  falling 
out  of  one  after  another  familiar  figure  on  the 
way?  Even  now  it  occupied  Bell  a  little,  and 
the  ladies  a  great  deal,  to  think  of  these  stores, 
which  must  be  arranged  and  disposed  of  some- 
how, in  the  high  room.  Margaret's  wild  grief 
and  terror  were  not  within  the  range  of  any  such 
consolation  ;  but  those  who  felt  less  keenly  found 
in  them  a  great  relief. 

The  day  after  their  arrival,  Mrs.  Bellingham 
and  her  sister  went  up-stairs  with  much  solem- 
nity of  aspect,  but  great  internal  satisfaction,  to 
do  their  duty.  Sir  Ludovic  was  still  "  very  com- 
fortable," he  said;  but  dozed  a  great  deal,  and 
even  when  he  was  not  dozing  kept  his  eyes  shut, 
while  they  were  with  him.  They  had  remained 
by  his  bedside  all  the  previous  evening  with  the 
most  conscientious  discharge  of  duty,  and  Jean 
had  done  everything  a  woman  could  do  to  keep 
up  his  spirits,  assuring  him  that  he  would  soon 
feel  himself  again,  and  planning  a  hundred  things 
which  were  to  be  done  "as  soon  as  you  are 
about."  To  say  that  this  never  deceived  Sir 
Ludovic,  is  little.  He  listened  to  it  all  with  a 
smile,  knowing  that  she  was  as  little  deceived  as 
he  was.  If  he  had  not  been  in  bed  and  so  fee- 
ble, he  would  have  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
said  it  was  Jean's  way.  Miss  Grace  had  not  the 
opportunity  to  talk,  had  she  wished  it ;  but  she 
did  not  take  the  same  line  in  any  case.  She 
stood  by  him  on  the  other  side,  and  from  time 
to  time  put  down  her  face  to  touch  his,  and  said, 
"Dearest  papa!"  When  he  wanted  anything, 
she  was  so  anxious  to  be  of  use  that  she  would 
almost  choke  him  by  putting  his  drink  to  his  lips 
as  if  he  had  been  a  baby. 

Poor  Sir  Ludovic  was  very  patient;  they 
amused  him  as  if  they  had  been  a  scene  in  a 
comedy;  but  he  was  very  tired  when  night 
came,  and  this  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  he 
kept  his  eyes  closed  next  morning.  He  woke 
up,  however,  when  Margaret  stole  in — a  pale  lit- 
tle ghost,  large-eyed  and  trembling.  She  looked 
at  him  so  piteously,  scarcely  able  to  speak,  that 
the  old  man  was  moved  to  the  very  heart,  not- 
withstanding the  all-absorbing  languor  of  his 
condition.  "Are  you  better  to-day,  papa?"  she 
said,  in  a  scarcely  audible  whisper.  When  he 
put  out  his  hand  to  her,  she  took  it  in  both  hers, 
and  laid  down  her  pretty  head  upon  it,  and  cried 
silently,  her  shoulders  heaving  with  suppressed 


sobs,  though  she  tried  her  best,  poor  child,  not 
to  betray  them. 

"My  little  Peggy!"  said  her  father,  "why  is 
this?  Have  I  not  told  you  I  am  very  comforta- 
ble? And  by-and-by  I  shall  be  more  than  com- 
fortable— happy ;  so  everybody  says ;  and  so  I 
believe,  too,  though  it  troubles  me  not  to  know 
a  little  better.  And  you  will  be — like  all  of  us 
who  have  lost  our  parents.  It  is  a  loss  that 
must  come,  my  little  girl." 

"  Oh  no,  no,  papa!"  her  voice  was  muffled  and 
hoarse  with  crying.  She  could  not  consent  to 
her  own  desolation. 

"Ah  yes,  my  little  girl,  it  must  come  ;  and  so 
we  go  on  to  have  children  of  our  own,  and  then 
to  leave  them  a  la  grace  de  Dieti.  My  Peggy, 
listen !  If  you  were  old  like  Jean  and  Grace, 
you  would  not  care ;  and  then  think  this  wonder 
to  yourself:  I  am  glad  that  my  little  girl  is  so 
young  and  breaks  her  heart.  Glad!  think  of 
that,  my  little  Peggy.  It  is  good  to  see  that 
your  little  heart  is  broken.  It  will  mend,  but  it 
warms  my  old  one." 

"Oh,  papa!"  she  cried,  kissing  his  pale  hand, 
"oh,  papa!"  but  could  not  lift  her  head  or  look 
him  in  the  face. 

"So  now,  my  little  girl,"  he  said,  "we  will 
not  make  believe,  you  and  I,  but  acknowledge 
that  we  are  going  to  part  for  a  long,  long  time, 
my  Peggy.  I  hope  for  a  very  long  time;  but 
probably,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "if  all  is  true 
that  we  fancy  and  believe,  it  will  not  be  so  long 
for  me  as  for  you.  I  shall  have  the  best  of  it. 
You  would  like  your  old  father  to  have  the  best 
of  it,  my  little  girl  ?" 

At  this  she  lifted  her  face  and  gave  hi  in  a 
look  which  said  Yes,  yes,  a  hundred  times!  but 
could  not  speak. 

"I  knew  you  would,"  he  said.  "I,  you  see, 
will  find  myself  among  old  friends  ;  and  we  will 
have  our  talks  about  what's  come  and  gone  since 
we  parted,  and  there  will  be  a  great  many  peo- 
ple to  make  acquaintance  with  that  I  have  known 
only — in  the  spirit,  as  the  Bible  says  ; — and  there 
will  be  the  One,  you  know,  that  you  say  your 
prayers  to,  my  Peggy.  When  you  say  your 
prayers,  you  can  fancy  (the  best  of  life  is  fancy," 
said  Sir  Ludovic,  with  a  faint  smile,)  "  that  I'm 
there  somewhere,  about  what  the  Bible  calls  His 
footstool,  and  that  He,  perhaps,  being  so  tender- 
hearted, may  call  to  me  and  say,  'Ludovic !  here 
is  your  little  girl.'  " 

"Oh,  papa!  will  you  say  something  more, 
something  more?" 

"I  would  if  I  could,  my  Peggy;  but  I  am 
tired  again.  I'll  have  a  little  doze  now ;  but  sit 
still  and  stay  by  me,  my  own  little  girl." 

And  there  Margaret  sat  almost  all  the  day. 
Excessive  weeping  brought  its  own  cure,  and  she 
could  not  weep  any  more,  but  sat  like  a  snow 
statue,  except  that  her  eyes  were  swollen ;  and 
by-and-by  fell  into  a  kind  of  torpor,  a  doze  of 
the  spirit,  sitting  in  the  warm  stillness,  with  no 
sound  but  the  soft  stir  of  the  fire,  and  sometimes 
the  appearance  of  old  John,  who  would  open  the 
door  stealthily,  and  look  in  with  his  long,  grave, 
serious  face  to  see  if  anything  was  wanted.  Mar- 
garet sat  holding  her  father's  hand,  stilled  by  ex- 
haustion and  warmth,  and  quiet  and  grief:  and 
Sir  Ludovic  dozed,  opening  his  eyes  now  and 
then,  smiling,  dozing  again.  So  the  long,  still 
morning  went  by. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


A  very  different  scene  was  going  on  in  the  high 
room,  which  was  over  the  long  room,  and  as 
long  and  large,  running  the  whole  width  of  the 
house.  It  had  a  vaulted  roof,  curiously  painted 
with  old  coats  of  arms,  and  was  hung  with  old 
tapestry,  gradually  falling  to  pieces  by  process 
of  time.  Several  of  the  windows,  which  had 
originally  lighted  it,  had  been  built  up  in  the 
days  of  the  window-tax,  and  stretching  across 
the  place  where  two  of  them  had  been  was  a 
great  oak  "  aumory  "  or  press,  full  of  those  rich- 
es which  John  called  "old  rubbitsh,"  but  which 
were  prized  by  ladies,  Bell  knew.  There  were 
old  clothes  enough  to  have  set  up  several  thea- 
tres, costumes  of  all  kinds,  sacques  and  pelisses, 
brocade  and  velvets,  feathers  and  lace.  Mrs. 
Bellingham  remembered  specially  that  there  was 
a  drawer  full  of  lace;  but  Sir  Ludovic  had  never 
permitted  these  treasures  to  be  ransacked  when 
his  elder  daughters  were  at  Earl's  -  hall.  He 
would  not  tolerate  any  commotion  over  his  head, 
and  accordingly  they  had  been  shut  out  from 
these  delightful  hoards.  It  was  with  correspond- 
ing excitement  now  that  they  opened  the  doors, 
their  fingers  trembling  with  eagerness.  Mrs. 
Bellingham  had  interpreted  something  he  said 
into  a  desire  that  they  should  make  this  investi- 
gation, and  had  immediately  declared  that  his 
wish  was  a  law  to  her. 

"Certainly,  Grace,"  she  had  said;  "we  will 
do  it  at  whatever  cost,  since  papa  wishes  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  if  dearest  papa  wishes  it,"  said 
Grace.  And  Sir  Ludovic  smiled,  as  usual,  see- 
ing the  whole,  with  an  amused  toleration  of  their 
weakness.  Jean  got  out  the  drawer  of  lace  with 
nervous  anxiety.  "It  may  be  nothing,  it  may 
be  nothing,"  she  said,  meaning  to  save  herself 
from  disappointment.  She  took  out  the  drawer 
altogether,  and  carried  it  to  the  window  where 
there  was  a  good  light,  with  her  heart  beating. 

"Don't  be  excited,  Grace,"  she  said,  "per- 
haps it  is  only  modern  ;  most  likely  mere  babies' 
caps,  Valenciennes  and  common  stuff."  Then 
she  made  a  little  pause,  gave  one  hurried  glance, 
and  produced  the  one  word  "Point!"  with  an 
almost  shriek. 

"Point?"  said  Miss  Grace,  pressing  forward 
with  the  point  of  her  nose;  she  was  short-sight- 
ed, and  only  thus  could  she  inspect  the  treasure. 
Mrs.  Bellingham  held  her  off  with  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  she  dived  among  the  deli- 
cate yellow  rags ;  the  excitement  grew  to  a 
height  when  she  brought  out  her  hand  garland- 
ed with  wreaths  as  of  a  fairy  web.  There  was 
a  moment  of  silent  adoration  while  the  two 
ladies  gazed  at  it.  Some  sea-fairy,  with  curious 
knowledge  of  all  the  starry  fishes  and  twisted 
shells,  and  filmy  fronds  of  weed  at  the  bottom 
of  the  ocean,  must  have  woven  this.  "  Venice ! 
and  I  never  saw  finer ;  and  not  a  thread  broken  ! " 
cried  the  finder,  almost  faint  with  delight. 

"And  enough  to  trim  you  from  top  to  toe," 
said  Grace,  solemnly.  Bell  coming  in  jealously 
on  some  pretence,  saw  them,  with  their  hands 
uplifted  and  eyes  gleaming,  and  approached  to 
see  what  the  cause  of  so  much  emotion  might 
be. 

"Eh!"  said  Bell,  "the  heap  o'  things  that 
us  poor  folk  miss  for  want  o'  kennin'.  Is  that 
something  awfu'  grand  now,  leddies,  that  makes 
you  look  so  fain  ?" 

"It  is  a  most  lovely  piece  of  lace,"  cried  Mrs. 


Jean.  "  Venice  point ;  though  I  fear,  Bell,  you 
will  not  know  what  that  means.  Every  little 
bit  done  by  the  needle  —  you  will  understand 
that.     Look  at  all  those  little  sprays." 

"  Eh,  leddies,"  said  Bell.  "  Ye  ken  what  the 
fishwife  says  in  ane  o'  Sir  Walter's  novels — '  It's 
no  fish  you're  buy  in",  but  men's  lives.'  Eh, 
what  heaps  o'  poor  women's  een  must  be  workit 
into  that  auld  rag.  But  it  was  my  late  lady's  a' 
the  same.  I've  seen  her  wear  it,  and  many  a 
time  she's  told  me  the  same  story.  So  it  will  be 
Miss  Margret's  part  o'  her  fortune,"  said  the  old 
house-keeper,  with  malicious  demureness.  This 
discouraged  the  investigators  considerably. 

"I  never  saw  it  before,"  said  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham; "but  then  I  knew  but  little  of  the  late 
Lady  Leslie;  of  course,  if  it  was  her  mother's 
it  must  be  Margaret's.  Fold  it  up  and  put  it 
aside,  Grace.     Was  this  Lady  Leslie's  too?" 

"Na,  I  canna  say;  I  never  saw  that  before," 
said  Bell,  overwhelmed.  "Eh,  that  was  never 
made  by  woman's  fingers.  It  must  be  shaped 
out  o'  the  gossamer  in  the  autumn  mornings,  or 
the  foam  of  the  sea." 

But  Bell's  presence  disturbed  the  inquiry  ;  it 
was  not  until  she  was  called  away  to  see  to  Sir 
Ludovic's  beef-tea  that  they  fully  rallied  to  their 
work. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  what  that  old  wom- 
an says.  Lady  Leslie,  indeed !  Lady  Leslie 
was  not  five-and-twenty  when  she  died,  poor 
thing.  Stand  out  of  the  way,  Grace,  don't  come 
so  close.  You  may  be  sure  you  shall  see  it  all 
— and  no  girl  understands  lace.  It  might  be 
her  mother's  ?  Dear  me,  what  a  memory  you 
have  got,  Grace!  She  had  no  mother.  She 
would  never  have  married  poor  papa  if  there  had 
been  a  mother  to  look  after  her.  Thank  Prov- 
idence, Margaret  will  be  better  off.  This  af- 
fliction," said  Mrs.  Bellingham,  with  solemnity, 
"which  is  so  sad  for  all  of  us,  will  not  be  with- 
out its  good  side  for  poor  little  neglected  Mar- 
garet. Though  whether  it  is  ijot  too  late  to 
make  any  change  in  her—" 

"She  is  very  nice-looking,"  said  Miss  Grace, 
"and  being  pretty  covers  a  great  deal — at  least 
as  long  as  you  are  young." 

"Pretty !  None  of  the  Leslies  were  ever  ugly," 
said  her  sister;  "  but  it  breaks  my  heart  to  look 
at  her.  Neither  education  nor  manners.  She 
might  be  a  country  lass  at  the  meanest  farm ; 
she  might  be  a  fisher-girl  mending  nets —  Grace, 
I  wish  you  would  sometimes  let  me  get  in  a 
word !  It's  melancholy  to  see  her  running  about 
in  those  cotton  frocks,  and  think  that  she  is  my 
father's  daughter.  We  will  have  our  hands  full 
with  chat  girl.  Now  this  is  old  Flanders — there 
is  not  very  much  of  it.  I  remember  it  as  well 
as  if  I  had  seen  it  yesterday,  on  old  Aunt  Jean." 

"Then  that  should  be  yours,  for  you  were  her 
name-daughter — " 

"  Grace,  how  can  you  be  so  Scotch  !  Say  god- 
child— you  can  always  say  godchild — it  sounds  a 
great  deal  better ! " 

"But  we  were  not  English  Church  people  when 
we  were  born,  and  there's  no  godmo — " 

"  I  think  there  never  was  such  a  clatter  in  this 
world ! "  cried  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "Talk — talk — 
one  cannot  get  in  a  word !  I  know  papa's  old- 
fashioned  ways  as  well  as  yon  do,  but  why  should 
we  publish  them  ?  What  would  anybody  think 
at  the  Court  if  it  was  known  that  we  were  Pies- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


73 


byterians — not  that  I  ever  was  a  Presbyterian 
after  I  was  old  enough  to  think  for  myself." 

"It  was  being  at  school,"  said  Grace;  "and 
a  great  trouble  it  was  to  have  to  drive  all  the 
way  to  Fifetown  on  Sundays,  instead  of  going  to 
Dr.  Burnside.  You  were  married,  it  didn't  mat- 
ter for  you ;  but — do  you  mean  to  have  Aubrey 
down,  Jean,  after  all  ?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  to  have  Aubrey,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellingham.  She  had  been  carefully  measuring 
on  her  finger  and  marking  tbe  lengths  of  the 
lace,  which  was  the  reason  Miss  Leslie  had  been 
allowed  to  deliver  herself  of  so  long  a  speech. 
"He  will  perhaps  join  us  somewhere  after  this 
sad  time  is  over.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
we  will  be  able  for  much  company  at  first,"  she 
said,  with  a  sigh.  "  There  are  three  yards  of 
the  Flanders — too  much  for  a  bodice  and  too  lit- 
tle for  anything  else,  and  it  would  be  wicked  to 
cut  it.  After  all  we  have  gone  through,  of  course 
there  will  be  a  time  when  we  will  have  no  spirits 
for  company  ;  but  Aubrey  is  not  like  a  stranger. 
Being  my  nephew,  he  will  be  a  kind  of  cousin  to 
Margaret.  Dear  me,  I  wish  I  could  think  there 
was  a  good  chance  that  he  would  be  something 
more ;  for  the  responsibility  on  you  and  me  of  a 
young  girl — " 

"  Oh,  he  will  be  very  willing  to  be  something 
more,"  cried  Miss  Grace,  with  alacrity ;  "  a  pret- 
ty young  creature  like  Margaret,  and  a  good  in- 
come." 

"Her  income  is  but  a  small  one  to  tempt  a 
Bellingham ;  but  I  suppose  because  he  is  my 
nephew  you  must  have  a  fling  at  him.  I  have 
often  noticed  that  inclination  in  you,  Grace.  I 
am  sure  my  family,  by  marriage,  have  never  but 
shown  you  the  greatest  attention,  and  Aubrey 
never  makes  any  difference  between  us.  He  calls 
you  Aunt  Grace,  though  you  are  no  more  his 
Aunt  Grace —  Here  is  a  very  nice  piece,  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  It  is  English,  or  perhaps  it 
might  be  Argentan,  or  one  of  the  less  known 
kinds.  "Would  you  like  to  have  it?  It  is  very 
pretty.  So  here  are  three  pieces  to  commence 
with  :  the  Venice  point  for  Margaret,  if  it  really 
was  her  mother's — but  I  don't  believe  it — and 
the  Flanders  for  me. " 

Grace  lifted  the  piece  allotted  to  her  now  with 
but  scant  satisfaction.  It  was  Jean  who  had  al- 
ways the  lion's  share;  it  was  she  who  took  the 
management  of  everything,  and  put  herself  for- 
ward. Though  Miss  Leslie  was  very  willing  to 
sacrifice  herself  when  occasion  offered,  she  did 
not  like  to  be  sacrificed  calmly  by  others,  with- 
out deriving  any  glory  from  it.  But  she  said 
nothing.  There  was  a  great  deal  more  still  to 
be  looked  over,  and  Jean  could  not  always  have 
so  good  an  excuse  for  appropriating  the  best,  as 
she  had  when  she  secured  Aunt  Jean's  old  piece 
of  Flanders  lace. 

While  these  very  different  scenes  were  going 
on  within  the  walls  of  Earl's-hall,  the  old  gray 
house  in  which  so  soon  the  last  act  of  a  life  was 
to  be  accomplished  was  the  centre  of  many 
thoughts  and  discussions  outside.  At  the  break- 
fast-table at  the  Manse  Mrs.  Burnside  read  aloud 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  Ludovic  in  Edinburgh,  asking 
whether  the  Minister's  wife  could  receive  her  hus- 
band, who  was  uneasy  about  his  father,  and  anx- 
ious "to  be  on  the  spot,"  whatever  happened. 

"  I  thought  of  sending  my  Effle  with  Ludovic, 


if  you  would  take  her  in,"  Mrs.  Leslie  wrote. 
"  Of  course,  Earl's-hall,  so  little  bedroom  accom- 
modation as  they  have,  is  quite  full  with  Jean 
and  Grace  and  their  maid.  It  is  very  provoking 
that  it  should  be  such  a  fine  old  house,  and  one 
that  we  would  be  very  unwilling  to  let  go  out  of 
the  family,  and  yet  so  little  use.-  Ludovic  has 
always  such  confidence  in  your  kindness,  dear 
Mrs.  Burnside,  that  I  thought  I  might  ask  you. 
Of  course,  you  will  say  No  at  once,  if  it  is  not 
convenient.  Effie  is  not  very  strong,  and  I  would 
like  her  to  have  a  change ;  and  we  thought  it 
might  be  something  for  poor  little  Margaret,  if 
anything  happens,  to  have  some  one  near  her  of 
her  own  age.  She  is  the  one  to  be  pitied  ;  and 
yet  she  has  been  sadly  neglected,  poor  child — 
and  I  don't  doubt  but  in  this,  as  in  other  matters, 
all  things  will  work  together  for  good." 

"That's  a  sorely  misused  text,"  said  the  Min- 
ister, shaking  his  head. 

"Is  this  better?"  said  Randal:  "'Whereso- 
ever the  carcass  is,  there  will  the  eagles  be  gath- 
ered together.'  They  seem  all  rushing  upon 
their  prey." 

"No,  no,  you  must  not  say  that.  Their  own 
father — who  should  come  to  his  death-bed  but 
his  children  ?  I'll  write  and  say,  '  Certainly,  let 
Ludovic  come;'  and  if  you  can  do  without  that 
green  room  for  your  old  portmanteaux,  Randal, 
I'll  find  a  place  for  them  among  the  other  boxes  ; 
and  we  might  take  little  Effie  too.  I  am  always 
glad  to  give  a  town-child  the  advantage  of  good 
country  air." 

"  She  cannot  be  such  a  child  if  she  is  the  same 
age  as  Margaret — " 

"And  what  is  Margaret  but  a  child?  Poor 
thing,  poor  thing !  Yes,  she  has  been  neglected  ; 
she  has  not  had  the  up-bringing  a  lady  of  her 
family  should  have;  but,  dear  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Burnside,  who  was  of  the  old  school,  "  I've  seen 
such  things  before,  and  what  harm  did  it  do 
them?  She  cannot  play  the  piano,  or  speak 
French,  or  draw,  or  even  dance,  so  far  as  I  can 
tell ;  but  she  cannot  but  be  a  lady — it  was  born 
with  her — and  the  questions  she  asks  are  just  ex- 
traordinary. I  would  not  make  a  stipulation  for 
the  piano  myself  everywhere ;  but  still  there's  no 
doubt  she  has  been  neglected.  Jean  and  Grace 
are  far  from  being  ill  women  ;  but  I  don't  think 
I  would  like  to  change  old  Sir  Ludovic,  that  nev- 
er said  a  harsh  word  to  her,  for  the  like  of  them." 

"Yes,  mother,  Margaret  can  draw.  The 
young  fellow  who  put  Sir  Ludovic  into  his  car- 
riage last  Sunday,  whom  you  were  so  impatient 
of—" 

"Me  impatient!  Randal,  you  take  the  very 
strangest  ideas.  Why  should  I  be  disturbed, 
one  way  or  other,  by  Rob  Glen  ?  What  abont 
Rob  Glen  ?" 

"Not  much,  except  that  he  is  giving  her — 
lessons.     It  seems  he  is  an  artist — " 

"An  artist — Rob  Glen!  But  oh,  did  I  not 
say  Mrs.  Ludovic  was  right?  She  has  been 
sorely  neglected !  Not  that  old  Sir  Ludovic 
meant  any  harm.  He  was  an  old  man  and  she 
a  child  ;  and  he  forgot  she  was  growing  up,  and 
that  a  girl  is  not  a  child  so  long  as  a  boy.  After 
all,  perhaps,  she  will  be  better  in  the  hands  of 
Grace  and  Jean." 

"And  so  the  text  is  not  misused,  after  all," 
said  the  Minister,  once  more  shaking  his  head. 


74 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


CHAPTER  XX  L 


Ludovic  came  accordingly,  with  his  little 
daughter  Effie  —  a  sentimental  little  maiden, 
with  a  likeness  to  her  aunt  Grace,  and  very  anx- 
ious to  be  "of  use"  to  Margaret,  who,  though 
only  six  months  older  than  herself,  was  her  aunt 
also.  Ludovic  himself  was  a  serious,  silent  man 
— not  like  the  Leslies,  everybody  said,  taking 
after  his  mother,  who  had  been  a  Montgomery, 
and  of  a  more  steady-going  race.  While  Mrs. 
Bellingham  sat  by  her  father's  side  and  talk- 
ed to  him  about  what  was  to  be  done  when  he 
was  better,  saying,  "Oh  yes,  you  are  mending 
— slowly,  making  a  little  progress  every  day, 
though  you  will  not  believe  it;"  and  Grace 
stood,  eager,  too,  to  "be  of  use,"  touching  his 
cheek — most  generally,  poor  lady,  with  her  nose, 
which  was  cold,  and  not  agreeable  to  the  patient 
— and  saying,  "  Dearest  papa!"  Ludovic,  for 
his  part,  would  come  and  sit  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  not  saying  anything, 
but  keeping  his  serious  eyes  upon  the  old  man, 
who  was  more  glad  than  ever  to  doze,  and  keep 
his  eyes  shut,  now  that  so  many  affectionate 
watchers  were  round  him.  Now  and  then  Sir 
Ludovic  would  rouse  up  when  they  were  all  tak- 
ing a  rest  from  their  anxious  duties,  as  Grace 
expressed  it,  and  "was  just  his  ain  man  again," 
Bell  would  say. 

"Oh,  if  my  children  would  but  neglect  me!" 
he  said,  when  one  of  these  blessed  intervals 
came. 

■  "There  is  nobody  but  me  here  now,  papa," 
said  Margaret,  like  a  little  shadow  in  the  corner, 
with  her  red  eyes. 

"And  that  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be,  my  little 
Peggy;  but  who,"  he  said,  with  that  faint  little 
laugh,  which  scarcely  sounded  now  at  all,  but 
abode  in  his  eyes  with  all  its  old  humor — "who 
will  look  after  your  pronouns  when  I  am  away, 
my  little  girl?"  But  sometimes  he  moaned  a 
little,  and  complained  that  it  was  long.  "  Could 
you  not  give  me  a  jog,  John  ?"  he  would  say ; 
"I'm  keeping  everybody  waiting.  Jean  and 
Grace  will  lose  their  usual  holiday,  and  Ludovic 
has  his  business  to  think  of." 

"They're  paying  you  every  respect,  Sir  Ludo- 
vic," said  John,  not  feeling  that  his  master  was 
fully  alive  to  the  domestic  virtue  exhibited  by 
his  children.  Perhaps  John,  too,  felt  that  to 
keep  up  all  the  forms  of  anxious  solicitude  was 
hard  for  such  a  lengthened  period,  which  made 
the  "  respect  "of  the  group  around  Sir  Ludovic's 
death  -  bed  more  striking  still.  Sir  Ludovic 
smiled,  and  repeated  the  sentiment  with  which 
he  began  the  conversation — "  I  wish  my  children 
would  but  neglect  me."  But  he  was  always 
patient  and  grateful  and  polite.  He  never  said 
anything  to  Grace  about  her  cold  nose;  he  did 
not  tell  Ludovic  that  his  steady  stare  fretted  him 
beyond  measure ;  he  let  Jean  prattle  on  as  she 
would,  though  he  knew  that  what  she  said  was 
all  a  fiction.  Sir  Ludovic  was  never  a  more 
high-bred  gentleman  than  in  this  last  chapter  of 
his  life.  He  was  bored  beyond  measure,  but  he 
never  showed  it.  Only  when  he  was  alone  with 
his  little  daughter,  with  the  old  servants  who 
loved  him,  who  always  understood  him  more  or 
less,  and  always  amused  him,  which  was,  per- 
haps, as  important,  he  would  rouse  up  by  mo- 
ments and  be  his  old  self. 


As  for  Margaret,  she  led  the  strangest  double 
life — a  life  which  no  one  suspected,  which  she  did 
not  herself  realize.  They  made  her  go  to  bed 
every  night,  though  she  came  and  went,  a  white 
apparition,  all  the  night  through,  to  her  father's 
door  to  listen,  lest  anything  should  happen  while 
she  was  away  from  him  ;  and  in  the  evenings  after 
dinner,  when  the  family  were  all  about  Sir  Ludo- 
vic's bed,  she  would  steal  out,  half  reluctant,  half 
eager,  half  guilty,  half  happy  ;  guilty  because  of 
the  strange  flutter  of  sick  and  troubled  happiness 
that  would  come  upon  her. 

"Yes,  my  bonnie  lamb,  yell  get  a  moment  to 
yoursel' ;  gang  your  ways  and  get  a  breath  of 
air,"  Bell  would  say,  all  unwitting  that  something 
else  was  waiting  for  Margaret  besides  the  fresh 
air  and  soft  soothing  of  the  night. 

"I  will  be  in  the  wood,  Bell,  where  you  can 
cry  upon  me.  You  will  be  sure  to  cry  upon  me 
if  there's  any  need." 

"My  bonnie  doo!  I'll  cry  soon  enough;  but 
there  will  be  no  need,"  said  the  old  woman,  pat- 
ting her  shoulder  as  she  dismissed  her. 

And  Margaret  would  flit  along  the  broken 
ground  where  the  potatoes  had  been,  where  her 
feet  had  made  a  path,  and  disappear  into  the 
sighing  of  the  firs,  which  swept  round  and  hid 
her  amidst  the  perplexing  crowd  of  their  straight 
columns.  There  was  one  tree,  beneath  the  sweep- 
ing branches  of  which  some  one  was  always  wait- 
ing for  her.  It  was  a  silver-fir,  with  great  angu- 
lar limbs,  the  biggest  in  the  wood,  and  the  little 
mossy  knoll  between  its  great  roots  was  soft  and 
green  as  velvet.  There  Rob  Glen  was  always 
waiting,  looking  out  anxiously  through  the  clear 
evenings,  and  with  a  great  gray  plaid  ready  to 
wrap  her  in  when  it  was  cold  or  wet.  They 
did  not  feel  the  rain  under  the  great  horizontal 
branches  of  the  firs,  and  the  soft  pattering  it 
made  was  more  soothing  than  the  wild  sweep  of 
the  wind  coming  strong  from  the  sea.  There 
the  two  would  sit  sheltered,  and  look  out  upon 
the  gray  mass  of  EaiTs-hall,  with  that  one  ruddy 
lighted  window. 

Margaret  leaned  upon  her  lover,  whom,  in  her 
trouble,  she  did  not  think  of  as  her  lover,  and 
cried  and  was  comforted.  He  was  the  only  one, 
she  felt,  except,  perhaps,  Bell,  who  was  really 
good  to  her,  who  understood  her,  and  did  not 
want  her  to  be  composed  and  calm.  He  never 
said  she  should  not  cry,  but  kissed  her  hands 
and  her  cheek,  and  said,  soft  caressing  words  : 
"My  darling!  my  Margaret!"  His  heart  was 
beating  much  more  loudly  than  she  could  under- 
stand ;  but  Rob,  if  he  was  not  all  good,  had  a 
certain  tenderness  of  nature  in  him,  and  poetry 
of  feeling  which  kept  him  from  anything  which 
could  shock  or  startle  her.  Ai  these  moments, 
as  the  long  summer  day  darkened  and  the  soft 
gloaming  spread  over  them,  he  was  as  nearly  her 
true  and  innocent  and  generous  lover  as  a  man 
could  be  who  was  not  always  generous  and  true. 
He  was  betraying  her,  but  to  what  ?— only  to  ac- 
cept his  love,  the  best  thing  a  man  had  to  give ; 
a  gift,  if  you  come  to  that,  to  give  to  a  queen. 
He  was  not  feigning  nor  deceiving,  but  loved  her 
as  warmly  as  if  he  had  never  loved  any  one  be- 
fore, nor  meant  to  love  any  other  again.  And 
then  he  would  go  toward  the  house  with  her,  not 
so  far  as  he  went  that  first  night  in  over-bold- 
ness, when  they  were  caught  —  an  accident  he 
always  remembered  with  shame  and  self-reproach, 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


75 


yet  a  certain  pride,  as  having  proved  to  Randal 
Burnside,  once  for  all,  his  own  inferiority,  and 
that  he,  Rob  Glen,  had  hopelessly  distanced  all 
competitors,  however  they  might  build  upon  be- 
ing gentlemen.  He  led  her  along  the  edge  of 
the  wood  always  under  cover,  and  stole  witli  her, 
under  shadow  of  the  garden -wall,  to  the  cor- 
ner, beyond  which  he  did  not  venture.  Then 
he  would  take  her  into  his  arms  unresisted,  and 
they  would  linger  for  a  moment,  while  he  lavish- 
ed upon  Margaret  every  tender  name  he  could 
think  of — 

"Remember  that  I  am  always  thinking  of 
you,  always  longing  to  be  by  you,  to  support  you, 
to  comfort  you,  my  darling." 

"  Yes,  I  will  remember,"  Margaret  said,  meek- 
ly, and  there  fluttered  a  little  forlorn  warmth  and 
sweetness  about  her  heart ;  and  then  he  would 
release  her,  and,  more  like  a  shadow  than  ever, 
would  stand  and  watch  while  she  flitted  along 
the  wall  to  the  great  door. 

And  what  thoughts  were  in  Rob's  mind  when 
she  was  gone !  That  almost  innocence,  and  no- 
bleness and  truth,  which  had  existed  in  the 
emotion  of  their  meeting,  disappeared  with  Mar- 
garet, leaving  him  in  a  tumult  of  other  and  less 
noble  thoughts.  He  knew  very  well  that  he  had 
beguiled  her,  though  he  meant  nothing  but  love 
and  devotion  to  her.  He  had  betrayed  her,  in 
the  moment  of  her  sorrow,  into  a  tacit  accept- 
ance of  him,  and  committal  of  herself  from  which 
there  was  no  escape.  Rob  knew  very  well — no 
one  better — that  there  were  girls  who  took  such 
love  passages  lightly  enough ;  but  to  a  delicate 
little  maiden,  "a  lady," like  Margaret,  he  knew 
there  could  be  but  one  meaning  in  this.  Though 
she  had  scarcely  responded  at  all,  she  had  ac- 
cepted his  tenderness,  and  committed  herself  for- 
ever. And  he  knew  he  had  betrayed  her  into 
this,  and  was  glad  with  a  bounding  sense  of  de- 
light and  triumph  such  as  made  him  almost 
spurn  the  earth.  This  occurrence  gave  him,  not 
only  Margaret,  whom  he  was  in  love  with,  and 
whose  society  was  for  the  time  sweeter  to  him 
than  anything  in  the  world,  but  with  her  such  a 
dazzling  flood  of  advantages  as  might  well  have 
turned  any  young  man's  head :  a  position  such 
as  he  might  toil  all  his  life  for,  and  never  be 
able  to  reach  :  money,  such  as  would  make  him 
admired  and  looked  up  to  by  everybody  he  knew  : 
a  life  of  intoxicating  happiness  and  advance- 
ment, with  no  need  to  do  anything  he  did  not 
care  to  do,  or  take  any  further  trouble  about 
his  living,  one  way  or  another.  Rob's  organiza- 
tion was  not  so  fine  as  to  make  him  unwilling  to 
accept  all  these  advantages  from  his  wife  ;  in 
practical  life  there  are  indeed  very  few  men  who 
are  thus  delicately  organized ;  neither  were  his 
principles  so  high  or  so  honorable  as  to  give  him 
very  much  trouble  about  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  won  all  this,  by  surprise.  He  just  felt  it, 
just  had  a  sense  that  there  was  something  here 
to  be  slurred  over  as  much  as  possible — but  it 
did  not  spoil  his  pleasure.  It  was,  however,  ter- 
ribly difficult  to  know  what  it  would  be  best  to 
do  in  the  circumstances,  what  step  he  should 
next  take :  whether  he  should  boldly  face  the 
family,  on  the  chance  that  Sir  Ludovic  would  be 
glad  before  he  died  to  see  his  daughter  with  a 
protector  and  companion  of  her  own,  or  whether 
it  was  wise  to  keep  in  the  background,  and  watch 
the  progress  of  events,  keeping  that  sure  hold 


upon  Margaret  herself,  which  he  felt  he  could 
now  trust  to.  lie  had  done  her  good ;  he  had 
been  more  to  her  than  any  one  else,  and  had 
helped  her  to  bear  her  burden  ;  and  he  had  thus 
woven  himself  in  with  every  association  of  her 
life,  at  its,  as  yet,  most  important  period,  and 
made  himself  inseparable  from  her. 

He  had  no  fear  of  losing  his  hold  of  Margaret. 
But  from  the  family,  the  brother  and  sisters  who 
were  like  uncle  and  aunts  to  the  young  creature, 
Rob  knew  very  well  he  should  find  little  mercy. 
They  would  all  want  to  make  their  own  out  of 
her,  he  felt  sure ;  for  it  is  hard,  even  when  es- 
caping from  all  sensation  of  vulgarity  in  one's 
person,  to  get  rid  of  that  deeply-rooted  principle 
of  vulgarity  which  shows  itself  in  attributing 
mean  motives  to  other  people.  This  birth-stain 
of  the  meaner  sort,  not  always  confined  to  the 
lower  classes,  was  strong  in  him.  He  did  not 
feel  that  it  was  her  fortune  and  her  importance 
which  made  Margaret  valuable  in  his  own  eyes 
(for  was  he  not  in  love?),  but  he  had  no  hesita- 
tion in  deciding  that  her  family  and  all  about  her 
must  look  at  her  in  this  mercenary  light.  They 
certainly  would  not  let  her  fortune  slip  through 
their  fingers  if  they  could  help  it.  There  might 
be  some  hope  of  a  legitimate  sanction  from  Sir 
Ludovic,  who  was  beyond  the  reach  of  any  ad- 
vantage from  his  daughter's  money,  and  might 
like  to  feel  that  she  was  "settled"  and  safe; 
but  there  could  be  no  hope  from  the  others. 
They  would  have  plans  of  their  own  for  her. 
The  Leslies  were  known  not  to  be  rich,  and  an 
heiress  was  not  a  thing  to  be  lightly  parted  with. 
They  would  keep  her  to  themselves  ;  of  that  he 
was  sure.  And  at  such  a  moment  as  this,  what 
chance  was  there  of  reaching  Sir  Ludovic's  bed- 
side, and  gaining  his  consent?  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  do  so  without  running  the  gauntlet 
of  all  the  family ;  it  would  make  a  scene,  and 
probably  hurt  the  old  man  or  kill  him. 

Thus  lie  was  musing,  as  after  an  interval  he 
followed  Margaret's  course  under  the  shadow  of 
the  garden-wall,  meaning  to  make  his  way  out 
by  what  was  called  the  avenue,  though  it  was 
merely  a  path  opened  through  the  belt  of  wood, 
which  was  thin  on  that  side,  to  the  gate  in  the 
high-road.  But  this  spot  was  evidently  unlucky 
to  Rob.  When  he  was  about  to  pass  the  door 
of  Earl's  -  hall,  he  met  Mr.  Leslie  coming  out. 
Mr.  Leslie  was  one  of  the  men  who  are  always 
more  or  less  suspicious,  and  he  had  just  seen 
Margaret,  with  her  hat  in  her  hand  and  the  fresh 
night  air  still  about  her,  going  up  the  winding 
stair.  Ludovic  looked  at  the  man  walking  along 
under  the  wall  with  instinctive  mistrust. 

"Did  you  want  anything?"  he  asked,  hastily. 
"This  path  is  private,  I  think." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Rob  ;  "  at  least  everybody 
has  been  free  to  pass  as  long  as  I  can  remember ; 
but  I  was  on  my  way,"  he  added,  thinking  it 
good  to  try  any  means  of  conciliation,  "to  ask 
for  Sir  Ludovic." 

"There  is  no  change,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  stiffly. 
He  was  himself,  to  tell  the  truth,  very  weary  of 
this  invariable  answer,  but  there  was  nothing  else 
to  be  said  ;  and  he  tried  to  see  who  the  inquirer 
was,  but  was  unable  to  make  him  out  in  the  late 
dusk.  He  had  never  seen  him  before,  for  one 
thing.     "  You  are  from — " 

"I  am  from  nowhere,"  said  Rob.  "I  don't 
suppose  you  know  me  at  all,  Mr.  Leslie,  or  even 


7C 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


my  name.  I  am  Robert  Glen  ;  but  Sir  Ludovic 
has  been  very  kind  to  me.  He  lias  allowed  me 
to  come  and  sketch  the  house,  and  latterly  I  have 
seen  a  great  deal  of  liim.  His  illness  has  grieved 
me  as  much — as  if  I  had  a  right  to  be  grieved. 
He  was  very  kind.  Latterly  I  saw  a  great  deal 
of  him." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Leslie.  He  had  heard  the 
people  at  the  Manse  talking  of  Rob  Glen,  and 
he  had  seen  Margaret's  return  a  minute  before. 
What  connection  there  might  be  between  these 
two  things  he  did  not  very  clearly  perceive;  but 
there  seemed  to  be  something,  and  he  was  sus- 
picious, as  indeed  he  had  a  right  to  be. 

"Is  he  too  ill — to  ask  to  see  him  ?"  said  Rob, 
with  a  sense  that  a  refusal  would  take  ail  the  re- 
sponsibility off  his  shoulders.  If  he  could  see 
Sir  Ludovic  it  might  be  honorable  to  explain 
everything ;  but  if  not — 

"See  him!"  said  Mr.  Leslie;  "I  don't  know 
what  your  acquaintance  may  be  with  my  father, 
Mr.  Glen,  but  he  is  much  too  ill  to  see  anybody 
— scarcely  even  his  own  children.  I  am  leaving 
early,  as  you  perceive,  because  I  feel  that  it  is 
too  much  for  him  to  have  even  all  of  ourselves 
there." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Rob,  with 
the  proper  expression  in  his  voice ;  but  in  reality 
he  was  relieved ;  no  need  now  to  say  anything 
to  the  family.  He  had  Margaret  only  to  deal 
with,  and  in  her  he  could  fully  trust,  he  thought. 
"I  began  a  sketch  of  Sir  Ludovic,"  he  said, 
"for  which  he  had  promised  me  a  second  sit- 
ting; will  you  kindly  ask  Miss  Margaret  Leslie 
to  send  it  back  to  me,  that  I  may  finish  it  for 
her  as  well  as  I  can  ?  Poor  though  my  drawing 
was,  it  will  have  its  value  now." 

"  I  will  tell  my  sister,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  and 
he  swung  open  the  gate  and  waited  till  Rob 
passed  through.  "Good-night,"  said  the  young 
man.  It  was  better  in  any  case  to  be  courteous 
and  friendly,  if  they  would  permit  it,  with  "  the 
family."  But  Mr.  Leslie  only  made  an  indistinct 
murmur  in  the  darkness.  He  gave  no  articulate 
response ;  there  was  no  cordiality  on  his  side ; 
and  why,  indeed,  should  he  be  cordial  to  the 
farmer's  son?  Rob  went  quickly  homeward, 
forcing  a  smile  of  contempt,  though  there  was 
nobody  to  see.  This  haughty  and  distant  per- 
sonage would  yet  learn  to  respond  to  any  saluta- 
tion his  sister's  husband  might  make  ;  he  would 
have  to  be  civil,  if  nothing  more,  Rob  said  with- 
in himself.  What  was  he  that  he  should  be 
so  high  and  mighty  ?  An  Edinburgh  advocate 
working  for  his  living,  a  poor  laird  at  the  best, 
with  a  ramshackle  old  house  for  all  his  inherit- 
ance. Thus  the  vulgar  came  uppermost  again 
in  Rob's  heart ;  he  scorned  for  his  poverty  the 
man  with  whom  he  was  indignant  for  scorning 
him,  because  he  was  unknown  and  poor.  He 
hurried  home  with  this  little  fillip  of  additional 
energy  given  to  all  his  schemes.  His  mother 
was  standing  at  the  door  as  he  approached,  look- 
ing out  for  him,  or  perhaps  only  looking  to  see 
the  last  of  the  cows  looming  through  the  dusk 
coming  in  from  the  fields.  He  was  absent  ev- 
ery night,  and  Mrs.  Glen  wanted  to  know  where 
he  went.  She  was  getting  impatient  on  all  points, 
and  had  determined  to  wait  no  longer  for  any  in- 
formation he  might  have  to  give. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  asked,  as  he 
came  in  sight. 


"To  Earl's-hall." 

"To  Earl's-hall!  And  what  have  you  been 
doing  at  Earl's-hall  ?  No  drawing  and  fiddling 
while  the  poor  auld  man  lies  dying  ?  Ye're  ill 
enough,  but  surely  you  have  not  the  heart  for 
that  ?" 

"I  have  neither  been  drawing  nor  fiddling — 
indeed  I  did  not  know  that  I  could  fiddle ;  but, 
all  the  same,  I  have  come  from  Earl's-hall,"  he 
said.  "Let  me  in,  mother ;  I've  been  sitting  in 
the  wood,  and  the  night  has  got  cold." 

"What  have  you  been  doing — sitting  in  the 
wood  ?  There's  no  light  to  take  your  views — 
tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Glen,  with  determination, 
"what  have  you  been  doing,  once  for  all." 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  he  said;  "I  have 
been  sitting  in  the  wood  with  Margaret." 

"With — Margaret?  you're  no  blate  to  speak 
o'  a  young  lady  like  that.  Rob,  my  bonnie  man, 
I  aye  thought  you  were  to  be  the  lucky  bairn  of 
my  family.  Have  ye  naething  mair  to  tell  me 
about — Margaret  ?  I  would  like  weel,  real  weel, 
to  hear." 

"Can  you  keep  a  secret,  mother ?"  he  said. 
"I  will  tell  you  something  if  you  will  swear  to 
me  never  to  repeat  it,  never  to  hint  at  it,  never 
to  brag  of  what  is  coming,  or  to  give  the  slight- 
est ground  for  suspicion  :  if  you  will  promise  me 
this — " 

"I  was  never  a  tale -pyet,"  said  Mrs.  Glen, 
offended,  "nobody  ever  laid  tittle-tattle,  or  brag- 
ging of  ony  kiud,  to  my  door.  But  if  you  can- 
na  trust  your  mother  without  promises,  I  see  not 
why  you  should  trust  her  at  all." 

"It  is  not  that  I  doubt  you,  mother ;  but  you 
know  how  difficult  it  is  not  to  mention  a  thing 
that  is  much  in  your  mind.  Margaret  Leslie  is 
my  own ;  it  is  all  settled  and  fixed  between  us. 
She  came  out  to  me  in  her  trouble  when  she 
found  her  father  was  dying,  and  what  cotdd  I  do 
but  comfort  her,  and  support  her,  and  show  my 
feeling — " 

"  Oh,  ay,  Rob,"  his  mother  interpolated,  "you 
were  aye  grand  at  that !" 

"  What  could  a  man  do  else  ? — a  sweet  young 
creature  like  Margaret  Leslie  crying  by  his  side! 
I  told  her,  what  I  suppose  she  knew  very  well 
before,  for  I  never  hide  my  feelings,  mother,  as 
you  say.  And  the  issue  is,  she's  mine.  How- 
ever it  was  done,  you  will  not  say  but  what  it 
was  well  done.  I  have  been  fond  of  her  since 
ever  I  can  remember." 

"And  of  twa-three  mair,"  said  Mrs.  Glen, 
"  but  no  a  word  o'  that,  Rob  my  man.  Eh,  but 
I'm  weel  pleased  !  That's  what  I've  been  think- 
ing of  since  the  very  week  you  came  hame. 
'Now  if  Rob,  with  all  his  cleverness,  could  get 
that  bonnie  Miss  Margret,'  I  said  to  myseP. 
The  Lord  bless  ye,  my  man !  I  aye  thought 
you  were  born  to  be  the  lucky  one  of  my  family. 
Is  it  a'  in  her  ain  disposition,  or  have  the  family 
ony  power  over  it,  Rob  ?  Eh,  my  bonnie  man, 
what  a  down-sitting!  and  the  bonniest  leddy  in 
Fife  of  her  years.  You're  a  lucky  lad,  if  ever 
there  was  one." 

"Let  me  in,  mother;  I  don't  want  to  tell  this 
to  any  ears  but  yours." 

"Ay,  ay,  my  man,  I'll  let  you  in,"  said  Iris 
mother,  standing  aside  from  the  door.  "Come 
in  and  welcome,  my  lucky  lad.  Is  there  any- 
thing you  would  like  for  your  supper?  Nae- 
thing in  a'  the  house  is  ower  good  for  such  good 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


77 


news.  We'll  take  a  bottle  o'  wine  out  of  the 
press,  or  maybe  ye  would  like  a  drap  toddy  just 
as  well,  which  is  mair  wholesome.  Come  in, 
come  in,  my  bonnie  man.  A  bonnie  lass,  and 
plenty  wi'  her ;  and  a  real  auld  family  an  honor 
to  anybody  to  be  connected  with.  My  word, 
Rob  Glen,  you're  a  lucky  lad !  Wha  will  look 
down  upon  you  now  ?  Wha  will  say  a  word 
about  your  opinions  ?  I've  never  upbraided  you 
mysel';  I  saw  your  talents,  and  felt  ye  could 
bide  your  time.  Eh,"  cried  Mrs.  Glen,  exultant, 
"  wha  will  say  now  but  that  marriages  are  made 
in  heaven  ?  And  Rob,  my  bonnie  man,  when  is 
it  to  be?" 

"We  are  not  so  far  as  that,  mother,"  he  said  ; 
"do  you  think  she  lias  the  heart  to  think  of 
marrying,  and  poor  old  Sir  Ludovic  lying  on  his 
death- bed?  We  must  wait  for  all  that.  I'm 
too  happy  in  the  mean  time  to  think  of  more. 
She's  mine ;  and  that  is  more  than  I  could  have 
hoped." 

■  "That's  very  true,  my  man:  but  still  some- 
thing settled  would  have  been  a  grand  stand-by," 
said  Mrs.  Glen,  slightly  disappointed  ;  "I  would 
have  thought  now  it  would  have  been  a  great 
comfort  to  Sir  Ludovic  to  see  his  daughter  mar- 
ried and  settled  before  he  slips  away.  But  the 
gentry's  ways  are  not  as  our  ways.  I'm  doubt- 
ing you'll  have  some  trouble  with  the  family,  if 
nothing's  settled  afore  the  auld  gentleman  dies." 

"I  doubt  I  will,  mother,"  said  Rob;  "but 
whatever  trouble  I  may  have,  Margaret's  mine, 
and  she  will  never  go  back  from  her  word." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  old  Sir  Ludovic's 
dozing  and  drowsiness,  his  speculations,  and  the 
gleam  of  humor  with  which  they  were  all  accom- 
panied, and  which  most  of  those  around  him 
thought  so  inappropriate  to  his  circumstances, 
came  to  an  end.  All  his  affairs  were  in  order, 
his  will  made,  though  he  had  not  much  to  leave, 
and  Dr.  Burnside  (which  was  a  great  satisfac- 
tion to  the  family)  paid  him  a  daily  visit  for  the 
last  week  of  his  life ;  so  that  everything  was 
done  decently  and  in  order.  Dr.  Burnside  had 
not  so  very  much  to  say  to  the  old  man.  He 
had  no  answer  to  give  to  his  questions.  He 
bade  Sir  Ludovic  believe.  "And  so  I  do,"  he 
said ;  he  could  not  be  got  to  be  frightened ;  and 
now  that  he  had  got  over  the  shock  of  it,  and 
into  that  dreamy  slumbrous  valley  of  the  shadow, 
he  did  not  even  wish  to  avoid  what  was  coming. 
"It  is  not  so  bad  as  one  thinks,"  he  said  to  old 
John,  his  faithful  servant,  and  to  the  good  min- 
ister, who  was  approaching  old  age  too,  though 
not  so  near  as  either  of  these  old  men.  Dr. 
Burnside  was  a  little  disturbed  by  the  smile  on 
his  patient's  face,  and  hoped  it  did  not  show  any 
inclination  toward  levity;  but  he  was  glad  to 
hear,  having  that  journey  in  view,  that  it  was 
not  so  bad  as  one  thought.  "  He  is  a  man  of  a 
very  steady  faith,"  the  Minister  said,  and  he  him- 
self was  wise  enough  to  let  Sir  Ludovic  glide 
away  out  of  the  world  with  that  smile  upon  his 
face. 

As  for  Jean  and  Grace,  they  did  their  best  to 
disturb  their  father  and  to  unsettle  him,  and  in- 
sinuated that  Dr.  Burnside's  instructions  were 


of  an  unsatisfactory  kind.  Even  Bell  held  it  un- 
orthodox that,  except  in  cases  of  religious  tri- 
umph and  ecstasy,  which  no  doubt  were  on  rec- 
ord, a  human  creature  should  leave  this  earth 
smiling,  to  appear  in  the  presence  of  his  Maker, 
as  she  said.  Mrs.  Bellingham  did  all  she  could 
to  question  her  father  on  the  subject,  but  was  not 
successful.  "  Leave  him  in  peace,"  his  son  said ; 
but  neither  was  Mr.  Leslie  satisfied.  It  was  very 
strange  to  them  all.  The  old  man  did  not  even 
seem  to  feel  that  anxiety  for  Margaret's  future 
which  they  expected,  and  never  made  that  solemn 
appeal  to  them  to  take  care  of  her,  to  which  both 
the  sisters  were  prepared  to  respond,  and  which 
even  Ludovic  expected,  though  he  felt  that,  with 
such  a  large  family  of  his  own,  nothing  much 
could  be  looked  for  from  him.  But  Sir  Ludovic 
made  no  appeal.  He  said  "My  little  Peggy," 
when  all  other  words  had  failed  him ;  and  on 
the  very  last  day  of  his  life  a  gleam  as  of  laugh- 
ter crossed  his  face,  and  he  shook  his  head  faint- 
ly at  her  when  she  said  "me"  instead  of  "I," 
and  thus  faded  quite  gently  and  pleasantly  away. 

There  was  silence  in  EaiTs-hall  that  night,  si- 
lence and  quiet,  scarcely  a  whisper  even  between 
the  sisters,  who  generally  had  a  meeting  in  Mrs. 
Bellingham's  room  for  a  last  discussion  of  every- 
thing that  had  passed,  notwithstanding  that  they 
were  all  the  day  together.  But  on  this  evening 
nobody  talked.  Ludovic  went  away  with  the 
Minister  and  ate  a  solemn  late  meal,  having,  as 
everybody  said,  eaten  nothing  all  day  (but  that 
was  a  mistake,  for  he  had  not  been  called  to  the 
last  ceremonial  till  after  luncheon^.  And  in 
Eaii's-hall  everybody  went  to  bed.  They  had 
been  keeping  irregular  hours,  had  sometimes  sat 
late,  and  sometimes  been  called  early  ;  and  John 
and  Bell,  in  particular,  had  not  for  a  week  past 
kept  any  count  which  was  night  and  which  was 
day.  A  few  broken  phrases  about  "him  yon- 
der," a  groan  from  John,  a  few  tears  rubbed  off, 
till  her  eyes  were  red,  by  Bell's  apron,  and  the 
sound  of  "greeting"  from  Jeanie's  little  turret- 
room,  was  almost  all  that  could  be  heard  in  the 
sileut  house.  Margaret,  for  her  part,  could  not 
"greet"  as  Jeanie  did.  She  was  stunned,  and 
did  not  know  what  had  happened  to  her.  Eor 
the  moment  it  was  over ;  the  worst  had  come, 
and  a  blank  of  utter  exhaustion  came  over  the 
girl.  She  allowed  herself  to  be  put  to  bed,  and 
did  nothing  but  sigh,  long  sighs  which  went  to 
Bell's  heart,  sighs  which  seemed  almost  a  physi- 
cal necessity  to  the  young  bosom  oppressed  with 
such  an  unknown  burden.  Mrs.  Bellingham 
(though  she  was  not  quite  satisfied  in  her  mind) 
said  a  few  words  to  her  maid  that  it  was  a  most 
peaceful  end,  that  it  was  beautiful  to  see  him  ly- 
ing there  at  rest  just  as  if  he  were  asleep;  and 
Miss  Leslie  cried  copiously,  and  said  "Dearest 
papa!"  They  were  all  in  bed  by  ten  o'clock,  and 
the  old  gray  house  shut  up  and  silent.  A  dark 
night,  the  wind  sweeping  through  the  firs,  every- 
thing silent  and  hushed  in  earth  and  heaven,  and 
all  dark  except  the  one  window  in  which  a  faint 
watch -light  burned  palely,  but  no  longer  the 
warm,  inconstant  glimmer  of  any  cheerful  fire. 

But  with  the  morning,  what  a  flood  of  pent-up 
energy  and  activity  was  let  loose.  They  were 
all  anxious  to  keep  quiet  in  Margaret's  part  of 
the  house,  that  she  might  sleep  as  long  as  possi- 
ble and  be  kept  out  of  every  one's  way.  The 
arrangements  into  which  everybody  else  plunged 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


were  not  for  her.  The  first  thing  to  be  thought 
of,  of  course,  Mrs.  Bellingham  said,  was  the 
mourning,  and  there  was  not  a  moment's  time 
to  lose.  Telegraphs  were  not  universally  preva- 
lent in  those  clays,  and  one  of  the  men  from  the 
farm  had  to  be  sent  on  horseback  to  Fifeton  to 
send  a  message  to  Edinburgh  about  the  bomba- 
zine and  the  crape. 

As  Sir  Ludovic  bad  anticipated,  his  daughter 
Jean  did  not  stint  him  of  a  single  fold  ;  she  meant 
to  show  "  every  respect."  Fortunately  Steward, 
their  maid,  was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion,  both 
the  ladies  congratulated  themselves.  "  Of  course, 
we  shall  want  no  evening  dresses,  nothing  beyond 
the  mere  necessary  here,"  Mrs.  Bellingham  said. 
"One  for  the  morning  and  another  to  go  out 
with,  a  little  more  trimmed,  that  will  be  all." 
But  even  for  this  little  outfit  a  good  deal  of  trou- 
ble had  to  be  taken.  That  very  evening  a  man 
arrived  from  Edinburgh  with  mountains  of  crape 
and  boxes  full  of  hemstitched  cambric  for  the 
collars  and  cuffs.  There  was  crape  all  over  the 
house — even  Bell  and  Jeanie  had  their  share — 
no  stint.  When  a  man  has  been  so  much  thought 
of  as  Sir  Ludovic,  and  has  a  respectable  family 
whose  credit  is  involved  in  showing  him  every 
respect,  a  good  deal  of  quiet  bustle  becomes  in- 
evitable ;  the  house  was  full  of  whispers,  of  con- 
sultations, of  measurements,  and  a  great  hurry 
and  pressure  to  get  done  in  time  for  the  funeral ; 
though  the  funeral  was  delayed  long,  according 
to  use  and  wont  in  the  country. 

Mr.  Leslie,  on  his  part,  went  over  all  the  house, 
and  walked  diligently  about  the  farm  and  in- 
spected everything,  though,  being  a  silent  man, 
he  said  little  about  it.  It  was  too  early  to  say 
anything.  When  his  sisters  put  questions  to  him 
about  what  he  was  going  to  do,  he  said  he  had 
not  made  up  his  mind  ;  and  it  was  only  when  the 
funeral  was  over,  and  the  shutters  opened,  and 
old  Sir  Ludovic's  chair  put  against  the  wall,  that 
he  at  all  opened  his  mind.  Nearly  a  week  passed 
in  this  melancholy  interval ;  he  had  become  Sir 
Ludovic  himself,  but  nobody  in  Earl's-hall  could 
give  him  the  familiar  title ;  old  John  ground  his 
teeth  together  (though  he  had  not  many  left)  and 
tried  to  get  it  out,  but  the  conclusion  was  a  hur- 
ried exclamation, 

"I  canna  do  it !  Pit  me  away,  sir.  Bell  and 
me,  we're  ready  to  gang  whenever  ye  please ;  but 
I  canna  ca'  ye  your  right  name." 

The  new  Sir  Ludovic,  though  he  said  little, 
had  a  kind  heart.  He  said,  "Never  mind,  John  ; 
tell  Bell  never  to  mind;"  but  Mrs.  Bellingham 
had  no  such  feeling.  She  said  it  was  ridiculous 
in  servants,  when  the  family  themselves  had  to 
do  it.  "I  hope  I  know  what  is  due  to  the  living 
as  well  as  to  the  dead,"  she  cried ;  "and  if  I  can 
say  it,  why  should  not  John?" 

But  at  first,  no  doubt,  it  was  difficult  enough. 
After  the  funeral,  however,  the  new  Sir  Ludovic 
went  "  home  "  to  Earl's-hall,  where  his  wife  came 
and  joined  him.  The  eldest  boy,  too,  arrived  for 
the  ceremony  itself,  and  walked  with  his  father 
to  the  church-yard  as  one  of  the  chief  mourners. 
The  house  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  fam- 
ily as  soon  as  the  last  act  of  old  Sir  Ludovic's 
earthly  history  was  accomplished.  Beds  were 
put  in  the  high  room  to  accommodate  the  boys. 
It  was  all  novelty  to  them,  who  had  not  known 
very  much  of  their  grandfather,  and  their  moth- 
er liked  being  my  lady.     It  was  natural.     She 


had  not  known  much  of  the  old  man  any  more 
than  her  children  had,  and  he  was  only  her  fa- 
ther-in-law—  not  a  very  tender  relationship. 
Thus  the  new  tide  rose  at  once,  and  new  life 
came  in.  Had  there  been  only  the  elders  in  the 
house,  no  doubt  they  would  have  kept  up  a  drow- 
sy appearance  of  gravity ;  but  that  was  not  to  be 
done  with  young  people  in  the  house. 

As  for  Margaret,  this  period  passed  over  her 
like  a  dream.  While  the  house  was  shut  up, 
and  everything  went  on  in  a  pale  twilight,  she 
wandered  about  like  a  ghost,  not  knowing  what 
to  do  or  say,  unable  to  take  up  any  of  her  occu- 
pations. It  seemed  years  to  her,  centuries  since 
the  careless  time  when  she  went  and  came  so 
lightly,  fearing  no  evil;  trying  to  draw  straight 
lines  with  an  ineffectual  pencil ;  flitting  out  and 
in  of  her  father's  room ;  getting  out  books  for 
him ;  searching  for  something  she  might  read 
herself;  taking  up  for  half  an  hour  Lady  Jean's 
old  work;  knitting  a  bit  of  Bell's  stocking;  roam- 
ing everywhere  about  as  light  as  the  wind.  All 
that,  Margaret  thought,  was  over  forever;  but 
she  did  not  "  break  her  heart  "altogether,  as  she 
supposed  she  would.  Sometimes,  indeed,  an  ach- 
ing sense  of  loss,  a  horrible  void  about  her  would 
make  her  heart  sick,  and  her  whole  being  giddy 
with  pain  ;  but  in  the  intervals  life  went  on,  and 
she  found  that  it  was  possible  to  sit  at  table,  to 
talk  to  the  others,  to  have  her  dresses  fitted  on. 
And  when  the  children  came,  there  were  mo- 
ments when  she  felt  inclined  to  smile  at  their 
curious  little  ways,  even  (was  that  possible?)  to 
laugh  at  little  Loodie,  who  was  the  youngest  of 
the  boys,  and  never,  Heaven  forbid !  would  be 
Sir  Ludovic.  Bell,  too,  found  little  Loodie  "a 
real  diverting  bairn."  "Eh,  if  his  grandpapaw 
had  but  been  here  to  see  him!"  she  said,  with 
tears  and  smiles. 

But  Margaret,  naturally,  was  more  unwilling 
to  be  "  diverted  "than  Bell  was.  When  she  was 
beguiled  into  a  smile  at  little  Loodie,  it  was  very 
unwillingly,  and  she  would  recover  herself  with 
a  sense  of  guilt ;  for  it  was  a  terrible  revelation 
to  Margaret,  a  most  painful  discovery  to  feel  that 
a  smile  was  possible  even  within  a  week  of  her 
father's  death,  and  that  her  heart  was  not  alto- 
gether broken.  She  wept  for  her  own  heartless- 
ness  as  well  as  for  her  dear  father,  of  whom  she 
had  thought  beforehand  that  all  she  wished  for 
would  be  to  be  buried  in  his  grave. 

But  she  went  out  of  the  house  only  once  be- 
tween the  death  and  the  funeral.  Rob,  for  his 
part,  roamed  round  about  it,  and  stayed  for  hours 
in  the  woods,  looking  for  her ;  but  it  seemed  to 
Margaret  that  for  the  moment  she  shrank  from 
Rob.  Oh,  how  could  she  have  thought  of  Rob, 
or  any  one,  while  he  lay  dying  ?  How  could  she 
have  gone  out  and  spent  those  hours  in  the  wood 
with  him,  which  might  have  been  spent  with  Sir 
Ludovic  ?  What  would  she  give  now,  she  said 
to  herself,  to  be  able  to  steal  up-stairs  to  him,  to 
sit  by  his  bedside,  to  hold  his  hand,  to  hear  him 
say  "  My  little  Peggy  "  again.  Now  that  this  was 
no  longer  possible,  she  felt  a  kind  of  resentment 
against  Rob,  who  had  occupied  her  at  times  when 
it  was  still  possible.  And  the  state  of  his  mind 
during  this  interval  was  not  pleasant  to  contem- 
plate. When  he  had  asked  once  or  twice  for  the 
ladies,  he  had  no  further  excuse  for  returning 
openly,  and  he  was  afraid  to  be  seen  lest  he 
should  again  meet  some  one — perhaps  the  new 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


79 


Sir  Ludovic  himself— who  had  not  been  delight- 
ed by  his  previous  appearance,  or  some  jealous 
spectator  like  Randal  Burnside. 

Rob  stood  for  hours  behind  the  big  fir-tree 
looking  toward  the  house  in  which  there  were 
more  lights  now,  but  no  glimmer  in  that  window 
which  had  been  his  beacon  for  so  long,  and  more 
voices  audible— never  Margaret's  soft  notes,  like 
a  bird.  He  was  very  fond  of  Margaret.  Those 
dreary  evenings  when  she  was  kept  from  him,  or 
kept  herself  from  him,  Rob  was  wild  with  love, 
and  fear,  and  disappointment.  Could  they  have 
found  it  out?  could  they  be  keeping  her  away? 
He  stood  under  the  fir-tree  scarcely  daring  to 
move,  and  watched  with  his  heart  beating  in  his 
ears.  Sometimes  John  would  loom  heavily  across 
the  vacant  space,  coming  out  again,  according  to 
his  old  habit,  to  "take  a  look  at  the  potatoes." 
Sometimes  Bell  would  appear  at  the  opening  of 
the  little  court-yard  to  "cry  upon"  her  husband 
when  something  was  wanted.  "There's  aye 
something  wanting  now,"  John  would  say,  as  he 
turned  back.  Or  Rob  would  see  some  one  at 
the  wall,  drawing  water,  under  the  shade  of  the 
thorn-tree,  without  knowing  who  it  was,  or  that 
there  were  any  thoughts  of  himself,  except  those 
which  might  be  in  Margaret's  bosom,  within  the 
gray  shadow  of  those  old  walls.  How  breath- 
lessly he  watched  John's  lumbering  steps  about 
the  potatoes,  and  the  whiteness  of  Bell's  aprons, 
and  the  clang  of  the  water-pails ! 

But  no  one  came.  Had  she  accepted  his  con- 
solations only  because  there  was  no  one  else  to 
comfort  her,  without  caring  for  him  who  breathed 
them  in  her  ear?  Were  all  his  lofty  hopes  to 
end  in  nothing,  and  his  love  to  be  rejected? 
Terror  and  anxiety  thrilled  through  Rob  as  he 
stood  and  watched,  tantalized  by  all  those  sounds 
and  half-seen  sights.  Once  only  she  came,  and 
then  she  would  say  little  or  nothing  to  him  :  she 
had  never  said  much ;  but  she  shrank  from  his 
outstretched  arms  now,  crying,  "Don't,  don't!" 
in  tones  half  of  terror.  That  one  meeting  was 
a  greater  disappointment  than  when  she  did  not 
come  at  all.  Had  she  but  been  taking  advan- 
tage of  him,  as  great  people,  Rob  knew,  were  so 
ready  to  take  advantage  of  small  people  ?  And 
now  that  she  needed  him  no  longer,  was  she 
about  to  cast  him  off?  In  that  case,  all  his  line 
anticipations,  all  his  triumph,  would  be  like  Al- 
nascher's  hopes  in  the  story.  His  very  heart 
quailed  in  terror.  The  disappointment,  the 
downfall,  the  decay  of  hopes  and  prospects 
would  be  more  than  he  could  bear. 

The  truth  was  that  Margaret,  left  all  alone 
suddenly  in  the  midst  of  what  to  her  was  a 
crowd  of  people,  all  more  or  less  strangers, 
seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  of  doing  so  much 
for  herself  as  to  go  anywhere.  Though  they 
amused  her  sometimes  in  spite  of  herself,  they 
kept  her  in  a  kind  of  subjugation  which  was  very 
confusing  and  very  novel. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Margaret?"  Mrs.  Bel- 
lingham  would  say,  if  she  went  across  the  room. 
"Darling  Margaret,  don't  leave  us,"  Grace 
would  add,  next  time  she  moved.  Even  Effie, 
who  was  so  anxious  to  be  "of  use,"  would  inter- 
fere, throwing  her  arms  about  her  youthful  aunt, 
whispering,  "You  are  not  to  go  to  your  own 
room  and  cry.  Oh,  come  with  me  to  the  tower, 
and  look  at  the  sunset." 

"Yes,  my  dear  Margaret,  go  with  Effie;    it 
6 


will  take  off  your  thoughts  a  little,"  said  the  new 
Lady  Leslie. 

Thus  Margaret  had  weights  of  kindness  hung 
round  her  on  every  side,  and  was  changed  in  ev- 
ery particular  of  her  life  from  the  light-hearted 
creature  who  flitted  about  like  the  wind,  in  and 
out  a  hundred  times  a  day.  Even  Bell  approved 
of  this  thraldom. 

"Ah,  my  bonnie  dear,  keep  wi'  Miss  Effie. 
She's  your  ain  flesh  and  blood.  What  would 
you  do  out  your  lane  when  you  have  sic  com- 
pany ?" 

"I  always  went  out  alone  before,"  Margaret 
said,  mechanically  turning  up-stairs  again. 

"Yes,  my  bonnie  doo;  but  you  hadna  a  bon- 
nie young  Miss,  a  cousin  of  your  ain  (for  niece 
is  but  a  jest),  to  keep  ye  company." 

Thus  Margaret  was  held  fast.  And  by-and- 
by  her  habit  of  wandering  out  would  probably 
have  been  broken,  and  she  might  have  been  car- 
ried away  by  her  sisters  safe  out  of  all  contact 
or  reach  of  her  lover.  For  the  lover,  as  will  be 
seen,  was  not  violently  in  Margaret's  mind.  If 
she  missed  him,  there  were  so  many  other  things 
that  she  missed  more !  He  was  but  part  of  the 
general  privation,  impoverishment  of  her  life. 
She  had  lost  everything,  she  thought  —  her  fa- 
ther, her  careless  sweetness  of  living,  her  light 
heart,  the  sunshine  of  her  morning.  All  these 
other  happinesses  being  gone,  how  could  Marga- 
ret make  an  effort  for  Rob  only  ?  She  was  not 
strong  enough  to  do  this.  She  was  not  even 
unwilling  to  let  him  go  with  all  the  rest.  Per- 
haps there  was  ingratitude  in  the  feeling.  He 
had  been  very  "kind"  to  her,  had  given  her  a 
little  comfort  of  sweet  sympathy  in  her  trouble. 
It  was  ungrateful  to  forget  that  now ;  and  she 
did  not  forget  it,  but  was  too  languid,  too  weary, 
and  had  lost  too  much  already  to  be  able  to 
make  any  effort  for  this.  Meanwhile,  while  she 
sat  in  a  kind  of  lethargy  within,  and  followed 
the  directions  of  all  about  her,  and  let  him  drop 
from  her,  Rob  roamed  about  outside,  gnashing 
his  teeth,  sometimes  almost  cursing  her,  some- 
times almost  praying  for  her,  watching  every 
door  and  window,  holding  the  post  of  a  most 
impatient  sentinel  under  the  great  fir-tree. 

It  happened  to  Margaret,  however,  one  even- 
ing to  find  herself  alone.  Mrs.  Bellingham  had 
a  headache,  a  thing  which  was  not  generally  re- 
garded as  a  great  calamity  in  places  where  Mrs. 
Bellingham  paid  visits.  It  confined  her  to  her 
room,  and  it  was,  on  the  whole,  not  a  disagree- 
able change  for  her  friends.  Her  sister,  who  in 
weal  and  woe  was  inseparable  from  her,  though 
she  would  have  been  glad  enough  to  escape  too, 
was,  under  Jean's  orders,  writing  letters  for  her 
in  her  room.  And  the  new  proprietors  of  Earl's- 
hall  were  glad  enough  for  once  to  be  by  them- 
selves. They  took  a  conjugal  walk  aboutthe 
place,  examining  into  everything  —  the  ruined 
part  to  see  if  anything  could  be  done  to  it ;  the 
stables,  which  had  been  made  out  of  part  of  the 
ruin  ;  even  the  pigsty,  which  was  John's  favorite 
spot  in  the  demesne.  The  subject  of  consider- 
ation in  the  mind  of  the  pair  was  whether  the 
old  place,  with  all  its  associations,  should  be 
sold,  or  whether  anything  could  be  done  with 
it,  cheaply,  to  adapt  it  for  the  country  residence 
of  the  family.  In  its  present  state,  certainly,  it 
did  not  take  much  to  "keep  up;"  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  rental  of  the  little  scraps  of  es- 


80 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


tate  which  old  Sir  Ludovic  had  left  scarcely 
justified  the  new  Sir  Ludovic,  with  his  large 
family,  in  "keeping  up"  any  country  place  at 
all.  To  decide  upon  this  subject  was  the  reason 
of  Lady  Leslie's  presence  here. 

And  Effie,  whose  mourning  was  less  deep,  and 
her  mind  less  affected  by  "  the  family  loss  "  than 
Margaret,  had  gone  to  visit  Mrs.  Burnside. 
Even  little  Loodie  was  being  put  to  bed.  Mar- 
garet, for  the  first  time  since  her  father's  death, 
was  alone.  She  had  found  that  day,  among  a 
collection  of  papers  into  which  it  had  been  shuf- 
fled heedlessly  amidst  the  confusion  of  the  mo- 
ment, the  drawing  of  her  father  which  Rob  Glen 
had  begun  on  his  first  appearance  at  Earl's-hall; 
and  this  had  plunged  her  back  into  all  that 
fresh  agitation  of  loss  and  loneliness  which  is, 
in  its  way,  a  kind  of  pleasure  to  the  mind,  in- 
stead of  the  dull  stupor  of  habitual  grief  which 
follows  upon  the  immediate  passion  of  an  event. 
She  had  wept  till  her  eyes  and  her  strength  were 
exhausted,  but  her  heart  relieved  a  little ;  and 
then  that  heart  yearned  momentarily  for  some 
one  to  comfort  her.  Where  was  he  ?  She  had 
not  thought  of  him  in  this  aspect  before — per- 
haps looking  for  her,  perhaps  waiting  for  her,  he 
who  had  been  so  "kind."  She  put  on  her  hat 
with  the  heavy  gauze  veil  which  Jean  had 
thought  necessary.  She  was  all  hung  and  gar- 
landed with  crape,  the  hat  itself  wrapped  in  a 
cloud  of  it,  her  dress  covered  with  it,  so  that  Mar- 
garet's very  movements  were  hampered.  The 
grass  always  damp,  more  or  less,  the  mossy  un- 
derground" beneath  the  firs,  the  moist  brown 
earth  of  the  potato -ground,  were  all  alike  un- 
suitable for  this  heavy  and  elaborate  robe  of 
mourning.  Margaret  gathered  it  about  her  and 
put  on  her  hat,  with  its  thick  black  gauze  veil — 
she  did  not  know  herself  in  all  this  panoply  of 
woe — and  went  out.  There  was  nobody  about. 
John  was  showing  the  new  Baronet  his  pigsty, 
and  Bell,  more  comforted  and  cheerful  than  she 
had  yet  felt,  stood  in  the  door  of  the  byre  and 
talked  to  Lady  Leslie  about  her  favorite,  her 
bonnie  brown  cow.  The  old  people  were  amused 
and  pleased ;  they  were  more  near  "getting  over 
it"  than  they  had  felt  yet;  and  even  John  be- 
gan to  feel  that  it  might  be  possible,  after  a 
while,  to  say  Sir  Ludovic  again. 

Margaret  went  out,  hearing  their  voices, 
though  she  did  not  see  them.  She  had  no  feel- 
ing of  bitterness  toward  her  brother,  though  he 
was  assuming  possession  of  her  old  home.  He 
had  not  much  to  say,  but  he  was  kind ;  and 
good  Lady  Leslie  was  a  good  mother,  and  could 
not  but  speak  softly  and  think  gently  of  every- 
body. They  were,  perhaps,  a  humdrum  and 
somewhat  care-worn  couple,  but  no  unkindness 
was  in  them.  It  gave  Margaret  no  pang  to  hear 
them  talking  about  Bell's  beloved  Brownie  or 
what  they  were  to  do  with  the  stables,  neither 
did  it  occur  to  her  to  take  any  pains  not  to  be 
seen  by  them.  It  was  still  light,  but  the  even- 
ing was  waning,  the  sky  glowing  in  the  west,  the 
shadows  gathering  under  the  fir-trees  in  the 
woods  which  lay  to  eastward  of  the  house.  She 
made  her  way  to  her  usual  haunt,  her  feet  mak- 
ing no  sound  on  the  soft  path.  Would  he  be 
there,  waiting  for  her  as  in  that  dreadful  time  ? 
or  would  he  have  gone  away?  Margaret  had 
not  enough  animation  left  to  feel  that  she  would 
be  disappointed  if  he  were  not  there,  but  yet 


her  heart  was  a  little  lighter,  for  the  first  time 
relieved  from  the  dull  burden  of  sorrow  which  is 
so  intolerable  to  youth.  And  who  can  say  with 
what  transport  Rob  Glen  saw  this  slim  black- 
clad  figure  detach  itself  from  the  shadow  of  the 
house  ?  He  had  come  here,  as  he  said  to  him- 
self, half  indignantly,  half  sullenly,  for  the  last 
time,  to  wait  for  her  —  the  last  time  he  would 
come  and  wait — but  not  on  that  account  would 
he  give  up  the  pursuit  of  her.  She  was  his — that 
he  would  maintain  with  all  his  force.  He  would 
write  to  her  next  day,  and  ask  why  she  did  not 
come.  He  would  let  her  feel  that  he  had  a 
claim  upon  her,  that  she  could  not  cast  him  off" 
when  she  pleased.  But  in  his  very  vehemence 
there  was  a  tremor  of  fear,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  describe  with  what  feelings  of  anxiety  he  had 
come,  putting  his  fortune  to  the  touch,  meaning 
that  this  vigil  should  be  final  before  he  proceed- 
ed to  "other  steps."  And  how  had  fortune, 
nay,  providence,  rewarded  him !  Not  John  this 
time,  not  Bell  smoothing  down  her  apron,  not 
Jeanie  with  her  pitcher  at  the  well;  but  slim 
and  fair  as  a  lily  in  her  envelope  of  gloom,  pale 
with  grief  and  exhaustion,  with  wet  eyes  and  a 
pitiful  lip,  that  quivered  as  she  tried  to  smile  at 
him,  at  last  Margaret  was  here. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"At  last!"  He  came  out  from  the  shadow' 
of  the  firs  and  took  her  hands,  and  drew  her  to- 
ward him.  "At  last!  my  Margaret,  my  own 
Margaret !  Such  a  weary  time  it  has  been  wait- 
ing, but  this  repays  all.  Say  that  it  is  not  your 
doing,  darling.  You  have  been  kept  back ;  you 
have  not  forgotten  me,  or  that  I  was  waiting 
here  ?" 

"No,"  she  said;  "but  I  did  not  know  you 
were  waiting  here.  I  did  not  know,  even,  if  I 
would  find  you  to-night." 

"It  would  have  been  strange,  indeed,  if  you 
had  not  found  me.  Every  evening,  as  sure  as 
the  gloaming  came,  I  have  been  here  waiting  for 
you,  Margaret.  I  did  not  think  you  would  have 
kept  me  so  long.  But  it  is  not  as  it  used  to  be 
between  us,  when  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might 
cast  me  oft' at  any  moment.  I  a  poor  farmer's 
son,  you  the  young  lady  of  Earl's-hall ;  but  that 
could  not  be  now ;  for  you  are  mine,  and  I  am 
yours." 

"It  would  not  have  been  at  any  time — for 
that  reason,"  said  Margaret.  She  was  uneasy 
about  the  very  close  proximity  he  wished  for, 
and  avoided  his  arm.  In  her  great  trouble  she 
had  not  thought  of  this,  but  now  it  troubled  and 
partially  shocked  her,  though  she  could  scarcely 
tell  why.  She  was  roused,  however,  by  the  idea 
that  she  could  have  slighted  him  for  any  ignoble 
reason.  "It  is  you  that  have  always  been  kind 
to  me,"  she  said.  "I,  who  am  only  a  country- 
girl,  and  know  nothing  at  all." 

"  You  are  a  princess,"  said  Rob ;  "  you  are  a 
queen  to  me.  My  queen  and  my  Margaret ;  but 
you  will  not  keep  me  so  long  hungering  and 
thirsting  out  here,  far  from  the  light  of  your 
sweet  countenance  ?  you  will  not  leave  me  so 
long  again  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Glen  !"  said  Margaret,  "  I  ought  to 
let  you  know  at  once,  we  are  going  away." 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


81 


"  Do  not,  for  Heaven's  sake,  call  me  Mr. 
Glen  !  Do  you  want  to  make  me  very  unhappy, 
to  take  away  all  pleasures  from  me  ?  Surely  the 
time  is  over  in  which  you  should  call  me  Mr. 
Glen.  You  cannot  want  to  play  with  me  and 
make  me  wretched,  Margaret  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice; 
"I  will  call  you  by  your  name,  as  I  used  to  do 
when  I  was  little.  But  it  is  quite  true  that  I 
said — we  are  going  away." 

"  Going  away  ?  Where  are  you  going,  and 
who  are  we  ?  Oh  yes,  I  knew  it  was  not  likely 
they  would  stay  here,"  cried  Rob,  with  mingled 
irritation  and  despair.  "  Where  are  they  going 
to  take  you,  my  Margaret  ?  —  nowhere  that  I 
cannot  come  and  see  you,  nowhere  that  I  will 
not  follow  you,  my  darling.  I  would  go  after 
you  to  the  world's-end. " 

"I  am  going  with  my  sisters,  Jean  and  Grace. 
They  are  my  guardians  now.  I  am  to  live  with 
them  till — for  three  years  at  least,  till  I  am  twen- 
ty -  one ;  then  they  say  I  can  do  what  I  like. 
What  does  it  matter  now  about  doing  what  I 
like?  I  do  not  think  I  care  what  becomes  of 
me,  now  that  I  have  no  one,  no  one  that  has  a 
right  to  me!  and  they  will  not  even  let  me  cry." 

She  began  to  weep,  and  he  did  not  stop  her, 
though  his  mind  was  full  of  impatience.  He 
drew  her  to  him  close,  and  this  time  she  did  not 
resist  him. 

"Cry  there,"  he  said,  "Margaret — my  Mar- 
garet !  I  will  never  try  to  keep  you  from  cry- 
ing. Oh !  he  deserved  it  well.  He  loved  you 
better  than  all  the  earth.  You  were  the  light  of 
his  eyes,  as  you  are  of  mine.  They !  what  does 
it  matter  to  them  ?  They  will  bother  you  ;  they 
will  make  you  do  what  they  like ;  they  will  not 
worship  you  as  he  did,  and  as  I  do.  But,  Mar- 
garet, there  is  still  one  that  has  a  right  to  you. 
Had  he  known,  had  I  but  had  the  courage  to 
go  and  tell  him  everything,  he  would  have  given 
you  to  me ;  I  am  certain  he  would.  He  would 
have  thought,  like  you,  that  it  was  better,  far 
better  for  you,  to  have  some  one  of  your  very 
own.  The  others !  what  are  you  to  them  ?  But 
to  him  you  were  everything,  and  to  me  you  are 
everything.  Margaret !  say  this,  darling !  Say, 
Rob,  I  am  yours ;  I  will  always  be  yours,  as  you 
are  mine ! " 

Margaret  looked  in  his  face  with  her  wet  eyes. 
But  she  did  not  say  the  words  he  dictated  to 
her.  Her  heart  was  full  of  emotion  of  another 
kind.  She  was  thankful  to  Rob  for  his  kind- 
ness, and  he  was  not  like — any  one  else ;  he  had 
a  special  standing-ground  of  his  own  with  her. 
To  nobody  elte  could  she  talk  as  she  was  talk- 
ing, on  nobody  else  would  she  lean ;  but  still  it 
did  not  occur  to  her  to  obey  him,  to  say  what  he 
asked  her  to  say. 

"I  found  that  picture  you  made,"  she  said, 
"only  to-day.  It  is  him,  just  himself.  I  took 
it  away  to  my  own  room  that  nobody  might  see 
it.  It  must  have  been  some  angel  that  put  it 
into  your  mind  to  do  that." 

"Yes,  Margaret,"  he  said,  "it  was  an  angel, 
for  it  was  you.  And  it  was  not  I  that  did  it, 
but  love  that  did  it;  but  if  you  will  give  it  to 
me,  I  will  make  it  still  more  like  him.  I  will 
never  forget  how  he  looked,  and  how  you  looked 
— and  my  heart  all  full,  and  running  over  with 
love,  which  I  dared  not  say." 

Alas !  there  Avas  this  peculiarity  in  the  conver- 


sation, that  while  Rob  was  eager  to  speak  of 
himself  and  his  love,  Margaret,  in  the  most  in- 
nocent and  unwitting  way,  made  it  apparent  that 
this  was  not  the  subject  that  interested  her  most. 
She  was  too  polite  not  to  listen  to  him,  too  grate- 
ful and  sensitively  affected  by  the  curious  link 
between  them  to  show  any  opposition ;  but  when 
she  could,  she  turned  aside  from  this  subject, 
which  to  him  was  the  most  interesting  subject  in 
heaven  or  earth ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  say  how 
this  fact  moved  Rob,  who  had  never  met  with 
anything  of  the  kind  before.  It  piqued  him,  and 
it  made  him  more  eager.  He  watched  her  with 
an  anxiety  and  impatience  which  he  could  scarce- 
ly keep  in  check,  while  she,  with  downcast  eyes 
full  of  tears,  pursued  that  part  of  the  subject 
which  interested  her  most. 

"  I  should  not  like  it  touched,"  she  said  ;  "I 
would  not  give  it  for  all  the  pictures  in  the  world  ! 
If  I  gave  it  to  you,  it  would  be  only  that  it  might 
be  put  into  some  case  that  would  preserve  it.  I 
have  folded  it  in  paper,  but  that  is  not  enough. 
I  would  not  give  it  for  all  the  pictures  in  the 
world !" 

"Thank  you,  my  darling,"  he  said.  "It  is 
something  to  have  done  a  thing  that  so  pleases 
you.  If  you  will  bring  it  to  me,  I  will  get  it  put 
in  a  case  for  you.  Indeed,  it  was  an  angel  that 
put  that  scene  before  me ;  for  now  when  you 
look  at  that,  and  think  of  him,  you  will  think  of 
me  too." 

"Oh  no, Mr. Glen,"  said  Margaret — then  she 
stopped,  confused  :  "  I  mean,  Rob — I  am  very, 
very  thankful  to  you.  But  when  I  look  at  that, 
all  the  world  goes  away,  and  there  is  only  papa 
leaning  back,  sleeping.  I  am  glad  he  was  sleep- 
ing. He  slept  a  great  deal,  do  you  know,  before 
he  died.  But  it  was  better  to  see  him  in  his 
chair,  as  he  used  always  to  be,  than  in  his  bed. 
I  don't  want  any  one  to  see  it  but  myself — other 
people  do  not  understand  it.  They  would  hand 
it  about  from  one  to  another,  and  say, '  Is  it  not 
like?'  and  talk.  I  could  not  bear  that ;  I  prefer 
to  keep  it  to  myself." 

"But  you  don't  mind  me  seeing  it?"  he  said. 
"I  should  not  be  so  unfeeling.  Many  a  time 
when  we  are  together — when  we  are  married, 
darling — we  will  look  at  it  together;  and  I  will 
make  a  picture  from  it,  a  real  picture,  with  you 
at  my  elbow,  and  it  shall  be  hung  in  the  best 
place  in  our  house." 

At  this  Margaret  winced  slightly,  but  made 
no  remark.  She  had  not  the  courage  to  con- 
tradict him,  to  say  anything  against  this  strange 
view;  but  it  disturbed  her  all  the  same.  Prob- 
ably it  would  have  to  be  some  time.  There 
seemed  a  necessity  for  it,  though  she  could  not 
quite  tell  why ;  but  as  it  could  not  be  now,  nor 
for  a  long  time,  why  should  it  be  spoken  of,  or 
brought  in  to  disturb  everything?  She  said,  not 
knowing  how  to  put  aside  this  subject  gently, 
yet  to  say  something  all  the  same :  "  Jean  and 
Grace  are  going  to  take  me  to  the  Grange — to 
my  house." 

"To  your  house!"  Rob  felt  the  blood  flush 
to  his  face  with  the  excitement  of  this  thought. 
"  I  did  not  know  you  had  a  house  of  your  own, 
Margaret." 

"  Oh  yes ;  it  was  my  mother's.  It  is  away 
in  England,  where  I  never  was.  I  have  seen  a 
picture  of  it.  They  say  it  is  very  English,  with 
creepers   hanging  about   the    walls,   roses    and 


82 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


honeysuckle,  and  beautiful  great  trees.  Jean 
thinks  everything  in  England  is  better  than  any- 
thing in  Scotland.  However  pretty  it  may  be, 
it  will  never,  never  be  like  old  gray  Earl's-hall." 

Rob  dropped  his  arm  from  her,  and  hung  his 
head.  "What  am  I  thinking  of?"  he  said; 
"you  a  great  lady,  with  beautiful  houses  and 
lands,  and  I  a  poor  man,  with  nothing.  I  must 
be  mad  to  think  that  you  could  care  for  me — 
that  you  would  even  think  of  me  at  all." 

"Mr. — Rob!  oh,  what  must  you  think  of  me 
that  you  say  so  ?  Do  I  care  for  money  or  for  a 
house?  Are  you  going  away?  Are  you  going 
to — leave  me?  oh!"  cried  Margaret,  penitent, 
clasping  her  hands;  "did  you  not  know  I  had 
a  fortune?  But  what  does  that  matter?  You 
have  been  kind,  very  kind  to  me,  thinking  I  was 
poor —  Rob !  are  you  going  to  cry,  you  ! — no, 
don't,  don't ;  you  will  break  my  heart !  I  am 
calling  you  by  your  name  now,"  she  said,  anx- 
iously, with  one  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  with 
the  other  pulling  down  the  hand  which  covered 
his  face.  She  put  her  own  face  close  to  his  in 
her  generous,  foolish  earnestness — "  I  am  call- 
ing you  by  your  name  now,  Rob ;  don't  hide 
your  face  from  me,  don't  go  away  and  leave  me. 
If  I  am  rich,  is  it  not  all  the  better?  There 
will  be  plenty  for  us  both." 

"It  makes  a  difference,"  he  said  ;  and  indeed 
lie  was  able  to  play  his  part  very  well,  for  nev- 
er before  in  his  life  had  Rob  been  so  entirely 
ashamed  of  himself.  Her  very  earnestness,  she 
who  had  been  so  cool  and  calm  before,  her  gen- 
erous trouble  and  importunity  humbled  him  to 
the  very  depths.  A  man  may  do  a  great  many 
things  that  will  not  bear  examination  before 
he  finds  himself  out ;  but  to  act  such  a  false- 
hood as  this — to  pretend  that  he  did  not  know 
what  he  knew  so  much  more  definitely  than  she 
did — to  pretend  to  resist  her  generous  anxiety — 
to  avert  his  face,  and  let  her  woo  him,  she  who 
had  taken  his  hot  wooing  with  such  shy  cold- 
ness !  This  made  Rob  feel  himself  the  most 
wretched  creature,  the  most  despicable,  miser- 
able, mercenary  wretch.  He  could  not  endure 
himself.  Well  might  he  hide  his  face  for  a  poor 
swindler  and  cheat,  worse,  far  worse  than  he 
had  ever  known  himself  before !  To  breathe 
deceitful  vows,  to  say  more  than  he  meant,  to 
promise  more  than  lie  intended  to  perform,  all 
this  was  not  a  thousandth  part  so  bad ;  for  in- 
deed he  had  always  been  "in  love,"  when  he 
made  love ;  and  a  promise  more  or  less,  what  is 
that?  The  common  coin  of  young  deceivers. 
Hitherto  Rob  had  not  been  bad,  only  fickle  and 
false.  But  what  was  he  now  ?  A  cheat,  a  liar, 
a  traitor,  unfit  to  breathe  where  such  innocent 
creatures  were.  Thus  he  played  his  part  very 
well ;  his  misery  was  not  dissembled  ;  and  when 
he  allowed  himself  to  yield  to  her  entreaties,  to 
be  moved  by  the  eager  eloquence  of  that  soft 
lip  which  was  so  ready  to  quiver,  what  vows  he 
made  in  his  heart  to  be  to  Margaret  something 
more  than  ever  man  had  been  before  ! 

After  this  their  intercourse  was  more  easy, 
and  by-and-by  Rob  came  to  feel  that  perhaps  the 
momentary  fear  of  losing  him  (which  was  how, 
in  his  native  vulgarity  and  self-importance,  he 
put  it,  after  a  while,  to  himself)  had  been  a  good 
thing.  More  than  ever  now  she  had  committed 
herself.  They  wandered  about  among  the  trees 
and  talked.     They  talked  of  her  departure,  and 


of  how  he  could  write  to  her — winch  Margaret 
was  half  shy  again  to  think  of,  yet  half  happy 
too,  a  novelty  as  it  was.  But  she  could  not  tell 
him  how  this  was  to  be  managed,  or  how  he 
could  come  to  see  her;  all  was  strange,  and 
Jean  and  Grace  were  very  different  from  any- 
thing she  had  known  in  all  her  previous  life. 

"  They  tell  me  to  sit  down  when  I  am  stand- 
ing, and  to  stand  up  when  I  am  sitting  down ; 
they  will  always  have  me  doing  something  dif- 
ferent," she  avowed,  though  gently,  and  with  a 
faint  sense  of  humor.  But  this  made  it  very  ev- 
ident that  the  life  before  her  would  be  quite  un- 
like the  past.  And  it  did  not  occur  to  Margaret 
that  Jean  and  Grace  ought  perhaps  to  be  in- 
formed of  Rob,  and  the  understanding  between 
him  and  herself.  Rob  naturally  said  nothing 
about  this,  and  to  Margaret  the  thought  did  not 
occur.  She  had  no  idea  of  concealment,  but  sim- 
ply did  not  think  of  her  sisters  in  connection 
with  this  "secret,"  which  was  something  too 
strange  and  confusing  to  herself  to  be  capable  of 
explanation  to  others,  who  could  not  know  how  it 
had  come  about. 

"  Will  you  come  up  to  the  tower  ?"  said  Effie 
Leslie  to  Randal  Burnside,  who  had  walked 
home  with  her  from  the  Manse.  Randal  had 
been  much  about  Earl's-hall  since  Sir  Ludovic's 
death.  He  had  been  ready  to  do  anything  for 
the  family,  and  the  family  had  been  very  willing 
to  employ  him.  It  was  a  kindness  to  give  him 
something  to  do,  his  mother  said,  who  was  glad 
to  throw  him  in  Margaret's  way ;  and  the  dec- 
orousness  of  the  grief  which  made  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham  and  Miss  Leslie  quite  unable  to  see  anybody 
was  put  aside  on  his  behalf  as  well  as  on  his 
father's.  And  Margaret  and  he  had  grown 
friends,  though  she  was  almost  the  only  one  in 
the  house  who  never  gave  him  any  commissions 
in  that  moment  of  bustle.  She  had  never  ceased 
to  be  grateful  to  him  for  calling  the  doctor  when 
her  father's  illness  began,  but  she  was  too  inde- 
pendent to  have  any  personal  wants  to  which  he 
could  minister,  and  too  shy  to  have  asked  his  aid 
if  she  had.  Effie  was  much  more  disposed  to 
make  use  of  the  young  man.  She  was  not  un- 
happy— why  should  she  be,  having  seen  so  little 
of  grandpapa?  She  was  a  little  elated,  indeed, 
to  think  that  mamma  was  now  my  lady,  and 
she  herself  entitled  to  precedence  as  a  baronet's 
daughter,  and  she  was  very  glad  to  have  some 
one  to  speak  to  who  did  not  melt  into  tears  in 
the  middle  of  the  conversation,  or  say,  "Hush, 
child !  remember  that  this  is  a  house  of  mourn- 
ing." The  Manse  was  not  a  house  of  mourn- 
ing, and  she  liked  to  go  there,  and  she  liked 
Randal  to  walk  home  with  her  and  talk.  Lady 
Leslie  was  still  looking  at  the  brown  cow  and 
John's  pigsty,  and  Mrs.  Bellingham,  as  has 
been  said,  had  a  headache.  Effie  peeped  into 
the  West  Chamber  and  the  long  room,  and  saw 
nobody.  And  then  she  said,  "  Have  you  ever 
been  on  the  tower, Mr.  Burnside?  Oh,  do  come 
up  to  the  tower." 

Randal  had  climbed  the  tower  a  hundred  times 
in  former  days.  He  went  up  the  winding  stair 
very  willingly,  thinking  he  would  have  all  the 
better  chance  of  seeing  "  the  others,"  when  the 
falling  night  drove  them  in  from  their  walks. 
Perhaps  "the  others"  meant  only  the  new  Sir 
Ludovic ;  perhaps  it  had  another  significance. 
He  was  interested  about  Margaret,  he  allowed  to 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


83 


himself— move  interested  than  he  dared  let  any 
one  know ;  for  had  he  not  almost  seen  a  lover's 
parting  between  her  and  Rob  Glen  ? — a  secret 
knowledge  which  made  him  very  uneasy.  Ran- 
dal felt  that  he  could  not  betray  them  ;  it  would 
be  a  base  thing  in  their  contemporary  —  or  so, 
at  least,  he  thought ;  but  he  was  uneasy.  Many 
thoughts  had  gone  through  his  mind  on  this  sub- 
ject. He  did  not  know  what  to  do.  The  only 
thing  that  seemed  to  him  possible  was  to  speak 
to  Rob  Glen  himself,  to  represent  to  him  that  it 
was  not  manly  or  honorable  to  engage  a  girl  in 
Margaret's  position,  without  the  knowledge  and 
consent  of  her  friends.  But  to  make  such  a 
statement  to  a  young  man  of  your  own  age,  with 
whom  you  have  not  the  warrant  of  friendship 
for  your  interference,  nor  even  the  warrant  of 
equality,  is  a  difficult  thing  to  do.  If  Rob,  re- 
senting it,  could  have  called  him  out,  there  would 
have  been  less  harm ;  but  that  was  ridiculous, 
and  what  could  be  done  to  expiate  such  an  af- 
front ?  There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  unless 
he  permitted  Rob  to  knock  him  down,  and  he 
did  not  feel  that  his  forbearance  was  equal  to 
that.  So  that  Randal  remained  very  uneasy  on 
this  subject,  and  did  not  know  what  to  do.  To 
let  Margaret  fall  into  the  hands  of  a — of  Rob 
Glen,  seemed  desolation  and  sacrilege ;  but  what 
could  Randal — who  had  known  them  both  from 
his  cradle  —  what  could  he  do  between  them. 
Was  it  his  part  to  tell  —  most  despicable  of  all 
offices  in  the  opinion  of  youth  ?  This  train  of 
uneasy  thought  was  brought  back  when  Effie 
looked  into  the  little  white-panelled  sitting-room, 
the  West  Chamber,  where  Margaret,  he  knew, 
spent  most  of  her  time.  She  liked  it  better  than 
the  long  room,  every  nook  of  which  was  so  full 
of  her  father's  memory  ;  and  the  ladies  humored 
her,  and,  small  as  it  was,  made  the  West  Cham- 
ber their  centre.  Where  was  she,  if  she  was  not 
there  ?  Possibly  out-of-doors  in  the  soft  even- 
ing, confiding  all  her  griefs  to  Rob  Glen.  Pos- 
sibly it  was  the  thought  that  Randal  himself 
would  have  liked  to  have  those  griefs  confided  to 
him,  and  to  act  the  part  of  comforter,  that  made 
his  blood  burn  at  this  imagination.  So  soon  af- 
ter her  father's  death !  He  felt  disposed  to  de- 
spise Margaret  too. 

"Go  softly  just  here,"  said  Effie,  whispering; 
"for  there  is  Aunt  Jean's  room,  and  we  must 
not  do  anything  to  disturb  her  headache.  It  is 
a  very  good  thing,  you  know,  that  she  has  a 
headache  sometimes :  even  Aunt  Grace  says  so 
— for  otherwise  she  would  wear  herself  out.  Per- 
haps it  is  a  little  too  late  for  the  view,  but  the 
sky  was  still  full  of  glow  when  we  came  in.  Ah ! 
it  is  very  dark  up  here ;  but  now  there  is  only 
another  flight.  Oh  no,  it  is  not  too  late  for  the 
view,"  Effie  cried,  her  young  voice  coming  out 
soft  yet  ringing,  as  they  emerged  into  the  open 
air.  "  Nobody  can  hear  us  here,"  she  said,  with 
a  laugh  ;  for  at  seventeen  it  is  not  easy  to  be  se- 
rious all  day,  especially  when  it  is  only  a  grand- 
father, nothing  more,  who  is  dead. 

It  was  not  too  late  for  the  view,  and  the  view 
was  not  a  view  to  be  despised.  There  does  not 
seem  much  beauty  to  spare  in  the  east  of  Fife. 
Low  hills,  great  breadths  of  level  fields  :  the  sea 
a  great  expanse  of  blue  or  leaden  gray,  fringed 
with  low  reefs  of  dark  rocks,  like  the  teeth  of 
some  hungry  monster,  dangerous  and  grim  with- 
out being  picturesque,  without  a  ship  to  break 


its  monotony.  But  yet,  with  those  limitless 
breadths  of  sky  and  cloud,  the  wistful  clearness 
and  golden  after-glow,  and  all  the  varying  blue- 
ness  of  the  hills,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  sur- 
pass the  effect  of  the  great  amphitheatre  of  sea 
and  land  of  which  this  solitary  gray  old  house 
formed  the  centre.  The  hill,  behind  which  the  sun 
had  set,  is  scarcely  considerable  enough  to  have 
a  name ;  but  it  threw  up  its  outline  against  the 
wonderful  greenness,  blueness,  goldenness  of  the 
sky  with  a  grandeur  which  would  not  have  mis- 
become an  Alp.  Underneath  its  shelter,  gray 
and  sweet,  lay  the  soft  levels  of  Stratheden  in 
all  their  varying  hues  of  color — green  corn,  and 
brown  earth,  and  red  fields  of  clover,  and  dark 
belts  of  wood.  Behind  were  the  two  paps  of 
the  Lomonds,  rising  green  against  the  clear  se- 
rene, and  on  the  other  side  entwining  lines 
of  hills,  with  gleams  of  golden  light  breaking 
through  the  mists,  clearing  here  and  there  as  far 
as  the  mysterious  Grampians,  far  off  under  High- 
land skies. 

This  -was  one  side  of  the  circle ;  and  the  oth- 
er was  the  sea,  a  sea  still  blue  under  the  faint 
evening  skies,  in  which  the  young  moon  was  ris- 
ing ;  the  yellow  sands  of  Forfarshire  on  one 
hand,  stretching  downward  from  the  mouth  of 
the  Tay — the  low  brown  cliffs  and  green  head- 
lands bending  away  on  the  other  toward  Fife- 
ness — and  the  great  bow  of  water  reaching  to 
the  horizon  between.  Nearer  the  eye,  showing 
half  against  the  slope  of  the  coast  and  half 
against  the  water,  rose  St.  Andrews  on  its  cliff', 
the  fine  dark  tower  of  the  College  Church  poised 
over  the  little  city,  the  jagged  ruins  of  the  Castle 
marking  the  outline,  the  Cathedral  rising  majes- 
tic in  naked  pathos  ;  and  old  St.  Rule,  homely 
and  weather-beaten,  oldest  venerable  pilgrim  of 
all,  standing  strong  and  steady,  at  watch  upon 
the  younger  centuries.  This  was  the  view  at 
that  time  from  Earl's-hall.  It  is  a  little  less  no- 
ble now,  because  of  the  fine,  vulgar,  comfortable 
gray  stone  houses  which  have  got  themselves 
built  everywhere  since,  and  spoiled  one  part  of 
the  picture  ;  but  all  the  rest  will  remain  forever, 
Heaven  be  praised.  The  little  wood  of  Earls- 
hall,  pinched  and  ragged  with  the.wind,  lay  im- 
mediately below,  and  the  flat  Eden,  with  its 
homely  green  lines  of  bank  on  either  side,  light- 
ed up  by  here  and  there  a  sand-bank ;  but  the 
tide  was  out,  and  the  Eden  meandered  in  a  des- 
ert of  wet  brown  sand,  and  was  not  lovely.  The 
two  young  people  did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 
They  were  moved,  in  spite  of  themselves,  by  all 
this  perfect  vault  of  sky,  and  perfect  round  of 
earth  and  sea.  It  is  not  often  that  you  can  see 
the  great  world  in  little,  field  and  mountain,  sun- 
set and  moonrise,  land  and  sea,  at  one  glance. 
They  were  silenced  for  sixty  seconds ;  and  then 
Effie  Leslie  drew  a  long  breath  and  began  to 
chatter  again. 

"Well!"  she  said,  with  as  much  expression  as 
the  simple  word  was  capable  of  bearing,  "  I  don't 
think  I  should  like  to  sell  this  oldjiouse  where 
the  family  has  been  so  long,  if  I  were  papa!" 

"  I  would  not  sell  it,  if  it  were  mine,  for  any- 
thing that  could  be  offered  me!"  cried  Randal, 
in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment.  Effie  shook 
her  head. 

"Perhaps  not,  Mr.  Burnside;  but  then  you 
would  not  have  ten  children — or  nine  at  least ; 
for  now  Grade  is  married  she  does  not  count. 


81 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


But  oh,  I  wish  we  could  keep  Earl's -hall!  It 
must  be  very  pleasant  to  live  where  everybody 
knows  you,  and  knows  exactly  what  you  are — 
that  is,  if  you  are  anybody.  Poor  Margaret  will 
not  like  leaving,  but  then  she  is  a  lucky  girl ; 
she  is  an  heiress ;  she  has  a  house  of  her  own  ; 
and  I  dare  say  she  will  get  very  fond  of  that 
when  she  knows  it.  Do  you  think  I  ought  to 
call  her  Aunt  Margaret,  Mr.  Burnside?" 

Effie's  laugh  rang  out  so  merrily  as  she  said 
this,  that  she  checked  herself  with  a  little  alarm. 

"Suppose  Aunt  Jean  should  hear  me!"  she 
said;  and  then,  after  a  pause,  "Oh!  look 
straight  down,  straight  down  under  the  fir-trees, 
Mr.  Burnside.  Oh,  this  is  more  interesting  than 
the  view!     A  pair  of — " 

"Do  you  think  it  is  quite  honorable  to  look 
at  them  ?"  said  Randal.  He  had  a  presenti- 
ment who  it  must  be. 

"  Oh,  it  can't  be  anybody  we  know,"  said 
light-hearted  Effie. 

Far  down  in  the  wood,  under  the  firs,  no 
doubt  the  lovers  felt  themselves  perfectly  safe ; 
but  there  were  treacherous  groups  of  trees,  whose 
branches  had  been  swept  in  one  direction  by  the 
wind,  laying  bare  the  two  who  stood  beneath. 
They  were  standing  close  together,  holding  each 
other's  hands. 

"The girl  is  crying,  I  think," said  Effie,  "and 
leaning  against  the  man.  What  can  be  the  mat- 
ter ?  can  they  have  quarrelled  ?  and  she  is  all  in 
black,  with  a  thick  veil — " 

"Come  to  this  side,"  said  Randal,  hastily, 
"there  is  a  break  in  the  mist.  I  think  I  can 
show  you  Schehallion." 

"I  like  this  better  than  Schehallion,"  said 
Effie  ;  and  then  she  started  and  cried,  "  O-oh  !" 
with  a  long  breath  ;  and  suddenly  blushing  all 
over,  looked  Randal  in  the  face. 

"I  think  Schehallion  is  much  the  most  inter- 
esting to  look  at,"  he  said,  and,  touching  her  el- 
bow with  his  hand,  endeavored  to  lead  her  away. 
But  Effie  was  too  much  startled  to  conceal  her 
wonder  and  alarm. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Burnside!  you  are  not  thinking  of 
Schehallion,  vou  only  want  to  get  me  away.  I 
believe  you  know  who  he  is." 

"I  don't  know  who  either  is,  and  I  don't 
want  to  know,"  cried  Randal;  "and  I  think, 
Miss  Leslie,  I  must  bid  you  good-night." 

That  was  easy  enough ;  but  Effie  did  not 
budge,  though  Randal  went  awav. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Effie  was  not  a  tell-tale,  and  she  was  fond 
of  her  young  aunt ;  but  still  this  was  such  a 
revelation  as  made  the  blood  stand  still  in  her 
veins.  She  was  deeply,  profoundly  interested, 
and  strained  her  eyes  to  make  out  "the  gentle- 
man." Who  could  he  be?  Effie  felt  almost 
certain  Mr.  Burnside  knew,  and  almost  certain 
Mr.  Burnside  had  seen  them  before,  and  was 
their  confidant,  or  he  would  not  have  been  so 
anxious  to  call  her  attention  to  Schehallion. 
Schehallion!  nothing  but  a  hill  —  whereas  this 
was  a  romance!  She  leaned  over  the  parapet 
of  the  tower  till  the  night  grew  so  dark  that  she 
took  fright  and  felt  disposed  to  cry  for  help, 
never  thinking,  unaccustomed  to  it  as  she  was, 


that  she  could  grope  her  way  in  safety  down  the 
spiral  stair.  But  she  did  manage  it,  partly  for- 
tified by  a  generous  determination  not  to  "make 
any  noise  near  Aunt  Jean's  room,  which  might 
end  in  a  betrayal  of  the  lovers.  Effie  would 
have  gone  to  the  stake  rather  than  betray  the 
lovers  to  Aunt  Jean.  But  her  mother  was  a 
different  matter.  She  knew  she  could  not  go  to 
bed  with  a  secret  from  her  mother;  and  per- 
haps it  was  not  right,  was  it  quite  right,  of  Mar- 
garet ?  Effie  reflected,  however,  as  she  stumbled 
down  in  the  dark  to  the  West  Chamber,  where 
John  had  just  placed  candles  (the  inspection  of 
the  pigsty  being  over),  that  perhaps  grandpapa 
had  known  all  about  it ;  most  likely  Margaret 
had  told  him — and  she  had  no  need  to  tell  any 
one  else.  But  to  meet  a  —  gentleman,  in  the 
wood !  It  was  the  most  strange,  and  most  ex- 
citing, and  most  wonderful  thing  in  real  life 
which  Effie  had  ever  seen  with  her  own  eyes. 
She  crept  in  to  the  West  Chamber,  where  Miss 
Leslie  had  just  come,  relieved  of  her  attendance 
on  her  sister. 

"Your  dear  Aunt  Jean  is  a  little  better,"  she 
said,  "dear  Effie;  and  where  is  dearest  Marga- 
ret, and  your  dear  papa  and  mamma?  Dear 
Jean  has  gone  to  bed,  she  will  not  come  down 
to-night.  And  had  you  a  pleasant  walk,  my 
love  ?     And  how  is  dear  Mrs.  Burnside  ?" 

All  these  dears  put  Effie  out  of  breath ;  and 
she  had  been  out  of  breath  before,  with  the 
shock  she  had  got,  and  with  her  progress  down- 
stairs :  for  a  very  narrow  spiral  stair  which  you 
are  not  familiar  with  is  rather  alarming,  when  it 
is  quite  dark.  Effie,  however,  made  what  breath- 
less answer  she  could,  and  sat  down  in  a  corner, 
getting  some  work  to  conceal  her  burning  cheeks 
from  Aunt  Grace's  gaze,  and  forgetting  altogeth- 
er that  Aunt  Grace  was  short-sighted,  and  saw 
nothing  when  she  had  not  her  spectacles  on, 
which  she  did  not  wear  when  she  was  knitting. 
Miss  Leslie,  however,  very  glad  to  have  a  listen- 
er, and  to  have  la  parole  in  the  absence  of  her 
sister,  talked,  without  requiring  any  answer, 
straight  on,  flowing  in  a  gentle  stream,  and  gave 
Effie  no  trouble ;  and  the  girl  sat  turning  her 
back  to  the  light,  and  watching  very  keenly  who 
should  come  in  next.  The  first  was  her  mother, 
placid  and  fresh  from  the  cool  air,  saying  it  was 
very  pleasant  out-of-doors  after  having  been  in 
the  house  all  day ;  and  then,  after  an  interval, 
Margaret  followed,  very  pale,  with  her  eyes  red, 
and  her  hat,  with  its  heavy  veil,  in  her  hand. 

"Have  you  been  out  too,  my  dear?"  said 
Lady  Leslie.  "I  wonder  we  did  not  see  you; 
your  brother  and  I  have  been  taking  a  walk." 

"Yes,"  said  Margaret,  "I  saw  you  ;  I  was  in 
the  wood.     I  always  go  to  the  wood." 

"I  don't  think  it  is  at  all  a  good  place,"  said 
Aunt  Grace,  "a  damp  place;  and  no  doubt  you 
will  have  been  standing  about,  or  even  sitting 
down  upon  the  moss  and  grass.  Your  dear 
Aunt  Jean — no,  I  forgot,  she  is  not  your  dear 
aunt,  darling  Margaret,  but  your  dear  sister — it 
is  so  strange  to  have  a  dear  sister  so  young — 
She  is  better,  but  she  has  gone  to  bed ;  that  is 
why  you  see  me  here  alone.  Dear  Effie  has 
been  a  good  child  ;  she  has  been  sitting,  talking 
to  me,  while  you  have  been  out,  dear  Mary,  with 
dearest  Ludovic,  and  while  dear  Margaret  has 
been  out.  But  about  the  wood,  darling  Mar- 
garet; you  must  go  and  change  your  shoes  di- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


85 


rectly.  Deal-  Jean  would  never  forgive  me  if  I 
did  not  make  you  go  and  change  your  shoes." 

"They  are  not  wet,"  cried  Margaret,  going  to 
the  other  corner  opposite  to  Effie,  who  gazed  at 
her  with  the  eagerest  curiosity ;  but  Effie  was 
much  more  like  the  heroine  of  a  love-story  than 
Margaret,  and  the  little  girl's  heart  was  sore  for 
her  young  aunt.  She  had  no  mother  to  go  to 
and  tell,  and  how  could  she  tell  Aunt  Jean  ? 
As  for  Aunt  Grace,  that  might  be  possible,  per- 
haps ;  but  then  Aunt  Jean  would  be  told  direct- 
ly, and  there  would  be  no  fun.  These  were 
Effie's  thoughts,  sitting  with  her  back  to  the 
light,  so  that  nobody  might  see  the  excitement 
in  her  scarlet  cheeks;  but  Margaret  did  not 
seem  excited  at  all.  She  was  quite  quiet  and 
still,  though  she  was  obstinate  about  changing 
her  shoes.  Oh,  Effie  thought,  if  I  could  only 
lend  her  mamma !  but  then  you  cannot  lend  a 
mother.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
pity  the  poor  girl,  who  had  nobody  to  breathe 
the  secret  of  her  heart  to,  except  Aunt  Jean  and 
Aunt  Grace. 

That  night,  however,  after  all  the  ladies  had 
gone  up -stairs,  Lady  Leslie  appeared  again  in 
her  dressing-gown  in  the  long  room,  where  her 
husbaud  was  sitting  at  his  father's  table.  The 
room  was  dark,  except  in  the  small  space  light- 
ed by  his  lamp ;  and  if  the  good  man,  though  he 
had  not  much  imagination,  was  startled  by  the 
sight  of  the  white  figure  coming  toward  him 
through  the  dimness,  he  may  be  forgiven,  so 
soon  after  a  death  in  the  family.  When  he  saw 
who  it  was,  he  recovered  his  calm,  and  drew  a 
chair  for  her  to  the  table. 

"Is  it  you,  my  dear?"  he  said;  "you  gave 
me  a  fright  for  the  moment."  He  thought  she 
had  some  new  light  on  the  subject  of  the  house ; 
and  as  it  was  a  matter  of  great  thought  to  him, 
and  they  had  not  been  able  to  come  to  any  de- 
cision on  the  subject,  he  was  very  glad  to  see 
her.  "I  hope  you  have  thought  of  some  other 
expedient," he  said,  "I  can^make  neither  head 
nor  tail  of  it."  How  was  it  likely  he  could  think 
of  anything  but  this  very  troublesome  and  knotty 
problem  of  their  own  ? 

"No  indeed,  Ludovic,"  said  Lady  Leslie,  "I 
have  no  new  light ;  and  what  I  came  to  speak 
about  is  a  new  fash  for  you.  No,  nothing  about 
the  children,  they  are  all  right,  thank  God  !  But 
when  I  went  to  say  good-night  to  Effie,  I  found 
her  with  red  cheeks  and  such  bright  eyes,  that  I 
felt  sure  something  was  the  matter." 

"Not  fever?"  he  said.  "It  was  all  quite 
right,  in  a  sanitary  point  of  view — far  better  than 
most  old  houses,  the  surveyor  told  me." 

"No,  no,  not  fever:  when  I  told  you  it  was 
nothing  about  the  children !  But  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  about  it,  Ludovic.  It  is  poor  little 
Margaret.  Effie  told  me — the  monkey  to  know 
anything  about  such  things !  that  standing  by 
accident  on  the  tower,  looking  down  upon  the 
wood,  she  saw — " 

"  You  and  me,  my  dear,  taking  our  walk ; 
that  was  simple  enough." 

"No,  not  you  and  me  ;  but  two  people  under 
the  big  silver  fir — Margaret  and — a  gentleman  ; 
there  is  no  use  mincing  the  matter.  By  what 
Effie  saw,  a  lover,  Ludovic !  Well,  you  need  not 
get  up  in  a  passion,  it  may  be  no  harm.  It  may 
be  somebody  your  father  knew  of.  We  are  all 
strangers  to  her,  poor  little  thing.     There  may 


be  nothing  to  blame  in  it.  Only  I  don't  know 
what  gentleman  it  can  be  near  this,  for  it  was 
not  Randal  liurnside." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  not  Randal  Burn- 
side?"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  rising  and  pacing  about 
the  room,  in  much  fuss  and  fret,  as  his  wife  had 
feared.  "No,  but  it  could  not  be.  He  is  too 
honorable  a  fellow." 

;  "Mind,  Ludovic,  we  don't  know  it  is  not  as 
honorable  as  anything  can  be ;  your  father  might 
have  sanctioned  it.  I  would  lay  my  life  upon 
Margaret  that  she  is  a  good  girl.  It  cannot  be 
more  than  imprudent  at  the  worst,  if  it  is  that." 

"She  should  be  whipped," said  her  brother; 
"a  little  light-headed  thing!  not  a  fortnight 
since  my  father  died!" 

Sir  Ludovic,  though  his  blood  was  as  good  as 
any  king's,  was  a  homely  Scotsman,  and  the  di- 
alect of  his  childhood  returned  to  him  when  his 
mind  was  disturbed,  as  happens  sometimes  even 
in  this  cosmopolitan  age. 

"  Whisht,  whisht,  Loodie !"  said  his  wife. 
"She  is  a  poor  little  motherless  girl,  and  my 
heart  bleeds  for  her — and  I  cannot  bear  to  say 
anything  to  Jean.  Jean  would  interfere  with  a 
strong  hand,  and  make  everything  worse.  If 
we  only  knew  who  it  was !  for  I  can  think  of  no 
gentleman  of  these  parts,  unless  it  was  one  of 
the  young  men  that  are  always  staying  with  Sir 
Claude." 

At  this  her  husband  started  and  gave  a  long 
whew-w!  of  suspicion  and  consternation.  "I 
know  who  it  is,"  he  said — "I  know  who  it  is!" 
and  began  to  walk  about  the  room  more  than 
ever.  Then  he  told  his  wife  of  his  encounter 
with  Rob  Glen ;  and  the  circumstances  seemed 
to  fit  so  exactly  that  Lady  Leslie  could  but  hold 
up  her  hands  in  pain  and  horror. 

"No  doubt  my  father  was  foolish  about  it," 
said  Sir  Ludovic.  "It  is  true  that  he  used  to 
have  him  here  to  dinner ;  it  is  true  that  he  made 
a  sketch  of  the  house,  spending  days  upon  it. 
John  says  he  always  disapproved,  but  my  father 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  young  man.  Rob  Glen 
— I  know  all  about  him — the  widow's  son  that 
has  the  little  farm  at  Earl's-lee:  a  stickit  min- 
ister, John  says,  an  artist — a  forward,  confident 
fellow,  as  I  saw  from  the  way  he  addressed  me ; 
and,  by-the-way,  I  met  Margaret  coming  in  just 
before  I  met  him.  That  makes  it  certain.  It 
is  just  Rob  Glen,  and  no  gentleman  of  these 
parts :  not  even  an  artist  of  the  better  sort  from 
Sir  Claude's  —  a  clodpole,  a  lout,  a  common 
lad—" 

"Oh,  Ludovic!"  Lady  Leslie  shivered,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  ;  "  but  if  your 
father  took  him  up  and  had  him  about  the  house, 
Margaret  was  not  to  blame.  If  he  is,  as  you 
say,  'a  stickit  minister,' he  must  have  some  ed- 
ucation ;  and  if  he  could  draw  your  poor  father, 
he  must  be  clever.  And  probably  he  has  the 
air  of  a  gentleman — " 

"  I  took  him  for  a  pushing  forward  fellow." 
"And  how  was  the  child  to  know?  Good- 
looking,  very  likely,  and  plenty  of  confidence,  as 
you  say ;  and  she  a  poor  little  innocent  girl 
knowing  nothing,  with  nobody  to  look  after  her ! 
Oh,  Ludovic,  you  will  not  deserve  to  have  so 
many  sweet  daughters  of  your  own,  if  you  are 
not  very  tender  to  poor  Margaret ;  and  if  you 
can,  oh,  say  nothing  to  Jean  !" 

"  It  is  Jean's  business,"  said  Ludovic  [  but  he 


86 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


was  pleased  that  his  wife  should  think  him  more 
capable  than  his  sister.  ''Jean  thinks  she  can 
do  everything  better  than  anybody  else,"  he  said ; 
"but  what  is  to  be  done?  I  will  speak  to  him. 
I  will  tell  him  he  has  taken  a  most  unfair  advan- 
tage of  an  ignorant  girl.  I  will  tell  him  it's  a 
most  dishonorable  action — " 

"  Oh,  Ludovic,  listen  to  me  a  little !  How  do 
you  know  that  it  is  dishonorable  ?  I  incline  to 
think  your  father  sanctioned  it.  But  speak  to 
Margaret  first.  You  are  her  brother,  though  you 
might  be  her  father;  and  remember,  poor  thing, 
she  has  never  had  a  mother.  Speak  to  her  gen- 
tly ;  you  have  too  kind  a  heart  to  be  harsh.  Tell 
her  how  unsuitable  it  is,  and  how  young  she  is, 
not  able  to  judge  for  herself.  But  don't  abuse 
him,  or  she  will  take  his  part.     Tell  her — " 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  her  yourself,  Mary. 
You  could  manage  that  part  of  the  matter  much 
better  than  I." 

"  But  she  is  not  my  flesh  and  blood,"  said  Lady 
Leslie.  "She  might  not  think  I  had  any  right 
to  interfere." 

And  the  decision  they  came  to,  after  a  length- 
ened consultation,  was  that  Sir  Ludovic  should 
have  a  conversation  with  Margaret  next  morning, 
and  ascertain  how  far  things  had  gone,  and  per- 
suade her  to  give  up  so  unsuitable  a  connection  ; 
but  that  if  she  were  obdurate,  he  should  try  his 
powers  upon  Rob,  who  might,  perhaps,  be  brought 
to  see  that  the  transaction  was  not  to  his  credit ; 
and  in  any  case  the  affair  was  to  be  kept,  if  pos- 
sible, from  the  knowledge  of  the  aunts,  who 
henceforward  would  have  the  charge  of  Marga- 
ret. Sir  Ludovic's  calculations  were  all  put  out, 
however,  by  this  troublesome  piece  of  business, 
and  Lady  Leslie  shook  her  head  as  she  went 
away  through  the  long  room  and  up  the  dark 
stair,  a  white  figure,  with  her  candle  in  her  hand. 

' '  Papa  will  speak  to  Margaret  to-morrow, "  she 
said,  going  into  her  daughter's  room  as  she  passed, 
"and  we  hope  she  will  see  what  is  right.  But 
you  must  take  great  care  never  to  breathe  a  word 
of  this,  Efne,  for  I  am  most  anxious  to  keep  it  all 
from  Aunt  Jean." 

"  But  oli,  mamma,  what  will  happen  if  she  will 
not  give  him  up  ?  and  who  can  it  be  ?"  said  Effie. 
Lady  Leslie  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  make 
any  further  revelations  to  her  daughter.  She 
said,  "Go  to  sleep,  dear,"  and  gave  her  a  kiss, 
and  took  away  the  light.  And  shortly  after,  Lu- 
dovic, disturbed  in  all  his  thoughts  (though  they 
were  much  more  important,  he  could  not  but  feel, 
than  any  nonsense  about  a  lassie  and  her  sweet- 
heart), tramped  heavily  up-stairs,  also  with  his 
candle,  shedding  glimmers  of  light  through  all 
the  window-slits  as  he  passed ;  and  silence  and 
darkness  fell  once  more  over  the  house. 

But  Sir  Ludovic  had  a  face  of  care  when  he 
made  his  appearance  next  day.  The  sense  of 
what  he  had  got  to  do  hung  heavy  on  his  soul. 
Though  his  wife  had  entreated  him  not  to  be 
harsh,  it  was  not  of  cruelty,  but  of  weak  indul- 
gence, that  the  good  man  felt  himself  most  capa- 
ble. He  almost  hoped  the  girl  would  be  saucy 
and  impertinent,  to  put  him  on  his  mettle ;  but 
one  glance  at  Margaret's  pale,  subdued  child's 
face,  which  had  been  so  happy  and  bright  a  little 
while  ago,  made  this  appear  impossible.  If  only 
his  wife  could  have  done  it!  But  he  supposed 
Mary  was  right,  and  that  it  was  "his  place"  to 
do  it.      How  many  disagreeable  things,  he  re- 


flected, it  is  a  man's  "place"  to  do  when  he  is 
the  head  of  a  family!  He  did  not  feel  that  the 
dignity  of  the  place  made  up  for  its  troubles.  If 
Mary  would  only  do  it  herself!  And  Mrs.  Bel- 
lingham  had  emerged  as  fresh  as  ever  after  the 
little  retirement  of  yesterday.  Her  headache  was 
quite  gone,  she  was  glad  to  say.  It  was  so  much 
better  just  to  give  in  at  once,  and  go  to  bed,  and 
then  you  were  as  right  as  possible  next  day.  She 
was  able  for  anything  now,  Jean  said.  Sir  Lu- 
dovic gave  his  wife  an  appealing  glance  across 
the  table.  Jean  would  enjoy  doing  this,  she  would 
do  it  a  great  deal  better  than  he  should  ;  but  Lady 
Leslie  paid  no  attention  to  these  covert  appeals. 
Mrs.  Bellingham  was  in  better  spirits,  she  allow- 
ed, than  she  had  been  since  papa's  death.  "  In- 
deed, it  would  be  wicked  for  us  to  grieve  over 
that  very  bitterly,  though  great  allowance  must 
be  made  for  Margaret;  for  he  was  an  old  man, 
and  life  had  ceased  to  be  any  pleasure  to  him." 

' '  Dearest  papa ! "  said  Miss  Leslie,  putting  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"But  here  is  a  letter  from  my  nephew,  Au- 
brey Bellingham,"  said  Jean.  "I  think  you 
have  met  him,  Ludovic — a  very  fine  young  fel- 
low7, and  one  I  put  the  greatest  trust  in.  He  is 
to  be  at  Edinburgh  to-day,  and  to-morrow  he  is 
coming  on  here.  I  am  sure  good  Mrs.  Burnside 
will  not  mind  giving  him  a  bed.  He  has  come 
to  take  us  home,  or  to  go  anywhere  with  us,  if 
we  prefer  that.  It  is  such  a  comfort  on  a  long, 
troublesome  journey,  with  a  languid  party,  to 
have  a  gentleman." 

"I  should  have  thought  you  were  very  well 
used  to  the  journey,"  said  Lady  Leslie. 

"  So  I  am ;  and  it  is  nothing  with  only  Grace 
and  myself;  but  three  ladies,  and  one  a  very  in- 
experienced traveller — I  am  too  glad  to  have 
Aubrey's  help.  My  spirits  might  not  be  equal 
to  it,  and  my  strength  is  not  what  it  once 
was — " 

"No,  indeed,  dear  Jean,"  said  Miss  Grace; 
"  those  who  knew  you  a  few  years  ago  would 
scarcely  recog — " 

"And  Aubrey  is  invaluable  about  travelling. 
I  never  saw  a  man  so  good ;  for  one  thing  I 
have  very  much  trained  him  myself;  he  has 
gone  about  with  me  since  Ire  was  quite  a  little 
fellow.  I  used  to  make  him  take  the  tickets, 
and  then  he  got  advanced  to  looking  after  the 
luggage.  To  be  sure,  he  once  made  us  a  pres- 
ent of  his  beautiful  new  umbrella,  letting  the 
guard  put  it  into  our  carriage ;  but  that  was  a 
trifle.  I  think,  as  he  has  come,  we  must  settle 
to  go  in  a  day  or  two,  Mary.  This  just  gives 
me  the  courage  to  go.  I  should  have  lingered 
on,  not  able  to  make  up  my  mind  to  tear  our- 
selves away  from  a  spot — " 

"Where  we  have  been  so  unhappy."  Miss 
Leslie  took  advantage  of  the  moment  when 
Mrs.  Bellingham  took  up  her  cup  of  coffee.  A 
mouthful  of  anything,  especially  when  it  is  hot, 
is  an  interruption  perforce  of  the  most  eloquent 
speech. 

"It  will  be  better  for  us  all,  and  better  for 
Margaret,  not  to  linger  here,"  said  Jean.  "Poor 
child  !  she  will  never  do  any  good  till  we  get 
her  away.  Yes,  you  will  suffer,  Margaret,  but 
believe  me,  it  is  real  consideration  for  your  good 
— real  anxiety  for  you.  Ask  Mary ;  she  will  tell 
you  the  same  thing.  EaiTs-hall  will  never  be 
the  same  to  you  again.     You  must  begin  your 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


87 


new  life  sometime  or  other,  and  the  sooner  the 
better,  Margaret.  Would  yon  like  to  go  to  the 
Highlands  and  see  a  little  of  the  country?  or 
shall  we  go  straight  to  the  Grange  at  once? 
Now  that  Aubrey  is  to  be  with  us,  it  is  quite  the 
same  for  my  comfort;  and  we  will  do,  my  love, 
what  you  like  best." 

"Oh,  I  do  not  care  about  anything,"  said 
Margaret,  "whatever,  whatever  you  please." 

"That  is  very  natural,  my  dear,"  said  Lady 
Leslie,  "and  Jean  is  right,  though  perhaps  it 
sounds  hard.  Effie  and  I  will  miss  you  dread- 
fully, Margaret,  but  the  change  is  the  best  thing 
for  you.  If  you  go  to  the  Highlands,  would  you 
like' Effie  to  go  too,  for  company?"  said  the  kind 
woman.  But  Margaret  could  not  speak  for  cry- 
ing, and  Jean  and  Grace  did  not  seem  delighted 
with  the  suggestion. 

"It  will  be  best  for  her  to  make  the  break  at 
once,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "  Effie  can  come 
after ;  we  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  her  when  we 
are  settled  at  the  Grange." 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  said  Effie's  moth- 
er ;  but  this  rejection  of  the  offer,  which  she 
knew  to  be  so  kind  on  her  own  part,  of  her 
daughter's  company  made  her  heart  colder  to 
poor  Margaret  than  all  the  story  about  Rob 
Glen. 

Ludovic  put  his  hand  on  his  little  sister's 
shoulder  as  she  was  leaving  the  breakfast-table. 

"Will  you  come  out  with  me  and  take  a  little 
walk  about  the  place,  Margaret?  I  want  to  say 
something  to  vou,"  he  said. 

"What  is  that?"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "I 
suppose,  Ludovic,  you  would  like  me  to  come 
too?  I  will  get  on  my  hat  in  a  moment;  in- 
deed Margaret  can  fetch  it  when  she  brings  her 
own.  A  turn  in  the  morning  is  always  pleas- 
ant. Run  away,  my  dear,  and  bring  our  hats ; 
the  air  will  do  us  both  good." 

"But  I  wanted  your  advice,"  said  Lady  Les- 
lie— "yours  and  Grace's;  there  are  still  some 
things  to  jettle.  These  laces,  for  instance,  which 
we  were  to  look  over." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "But 
I  am  afraid  it  will  be  a  disappointment  to  Ludo- 
vic ;  and  then,  of  course,  it  is  necessary  I  should 
be  there  if  he  has  really  something  to  say  to 
Margaret." 

"  Let  me  go,  dear  Jean,"  said  Grace ;  "  I  will 
not  mind,  indeed  I  will  not  mind  much,  being 
away,  and  the  lace  could  never  be  settled  without 
you.  I  am  not  so  clever  about  knowing  the 
kinds,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  not  forget  that  I 
am  fond  of  it  too." 

"Does  Margaret  want  a  chaperon  when  she 
goes  out  with  me?"  said  Ludovic.  "It  is  only 
to  put  a  little  color  in  her  cheeks."  But  he  was 
not  clever  at  these  little  social  artifices,  and  look- 
ed once  more  at  his  wife. 

"Leave  him  alone  with  his  girls,"  said  Lady 
Leslie;  "a  man  is  always  fond  of  a  walk  with 
girls.  Get  \rour  hat,  Margaret,  my  dear,  and 
you  too,  Effie,  and  take  a  run  with  him.  He 
will  like  that  a  great  deal  better  than  you  and 
me,  Jean.  We  are  very  well  in  our  way,  but  he 
likes  the  young  things,  and  who  will  blame  him  ? 
and  we  will  settle  about  the  lace  before  they 
come  in." 

"There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  Mrs. 
Bellingham  said  ;  "  but  if  there  is  anything  par- 
ticular, it  will  be  better  to  wait  till  I  can  be  with 


you,  Ludovic  ;  and,  Margaret,  put  on  your  gal- 
oches,  for  it  rained  last  night." 

"You  can  take  mine,  dear,"  whispered  Grace, 
who  knew  that  Margaret  did  not  possess  these 
necessary  articles.  And  thus,  at  last,  the  party 
got  under  way.  Effie,  warned  by  her  mother, 
deserted  them  as  soon  as  her  aunts  were  safe  in 
the  high  room,  and  Margaret,  without  any  fore- 
boding of  evil,  went  out  with  her  brother  peace- 
fully into  the  morning.  It  was  very  damp  after 
the  rain,  as  Mrs.  Bellingham  had  divined,  and 
cost  her  some  trouble  to  keep  her  crape  unsoiled. 
But  except  for  that  care,  and  that  there  was 
some  excitement  in  her  mind  to  hear  of  the 
speedy  departure  from  Earl's -hall,  Margaret 
went  out  with  Ludovic,  with  great  confidence  in 
his  kindness  and  without  anv  fear. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  I  said  to  Jean  it  was  nothing,  for  I  did  not 
care  to  mix  her  up  with  it ;  but  I  have  some- 
thing very  serious  to  say  to  you,  Margaret,"  said 
Sir  Ludovic. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  wistful,  yet 
candid,  fearing  nothing  still.  The  character  of 
Margaret's  face  seemed  to  have  changed  within 
the  last  month.  What  she  was  in  June  was  not 
like  what  she  was  in  July.  The  trouble  she  had 
gone  through  had  not  seemed  to  develop,  but  to 
subdue  her.  She  had  been  full  of  variety,  ani- 
mation, and  energy  before.  Now  the  life  seem- 
ed to  have  sunk  to  so  low  an  ebb  in  her  paled 
being,  exhausted  with  tears,  that  there  was  little 
remaining  but  simple  consciousness  and  intelli- 
gence. She  did  not  seem  able  to  originate  any- 
thing on  her  own  side,  not  even  a  question.  A 
half  smile,  the  reflection  of  a  smile,  came  to  her 
face,  and  she  looked  up,  without  any  alarm,  for 
what  her  brother  had  to  say. 

"  Margaret,"  he  said  (how  hard  it  was !  hard- 
er even  than  he  thought.  He  cleared  his  throat, 
and  a  rush  of  uncomfortable  color  came  to  his 
middle-aged  countenance,  though  she  took  it  so 
calmly,  and  did  not  blush  at  all) — "Margaret, 
I  have  found  out  something,  my  clear,  that  gives 
me  a  great  deal  of  pain — something  about  you." 

But  even  this  solemn  preamble  seemed  to  con- 
vey no  thrill  of  conscious  guilt  to  Margaret's 
mind.  She  only  looked  at  him  again  a  little 
more  earnestly.  "Have  I  lost  my — money?" 
she  said. 

"No,  it  is  not  that.  What  made  you  think 
of  losing  your  money  ?" 

"It  often  happens,  does  it  not?"  she  said. 
"  I  am  sure  I  should  not  care." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  would  care — we  should  all  care ; 
but  your  money  is  safe  enough.  I  wish  you 
yourself  were  as  safe.  Margaret,  my  dear,  give 
me  your  full  attention  ;  you  were  seen  last  night 
in  the  wood." 

"Yes!"  she  said,  a  little  alarmed. 

"With  a — gentleman  ;  or  at  least,  let  us  hope 
he  was  a  gentleman,"  said  Ludovic.  "You 
know  that  it  is  not — usual,  nor  perhaps — right. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  it :  and  first  of 
all,  who  was  the  man  ?" 

Margaret  was  taken  entirely  by  surprise.  It 
had  not  occurred  to  her  to  think  of  Rob  Glen  as 
one  about  whom  she  could  be  questioned.     He 


88 


THE  PRIMROSE  RATH. 


had  grown  so  familiar  while  her  father  lived,  and 
he  had  been  so  kind.  There  was  no  sort  of 
novelty  about  it — nothing  to  be  thus  solemnly 
questioned  about.  But  she  looked  up  at  her 
brother  with  startled  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Ludovic,  the  gentleman — " 

"Yes;  don't  be  frightened  for  me,  my  poor 
little  sister,  I  will  not  be  unkind ;  but  tell  me 
truly,  everything.  You  must  not  keep  back  any- 
thing, Margaret." 

"I  don't  know,  perhaps,  if — you  would  call 
him  a  gentleman,"  said  Margaret,  the  color  be- 
ginning to  rise  in  her  pale  face.  Keep  back 
nothing!  Would  she  have  to  tell  him  all  they 
had  said  ?  Her  heart  began  to  beat  faster,  "it 
is  Rob  Glen,  Ludovic ;  perhaps  you  remember 
him  long  ago,  when  he  was  a  boy.  I  used  to  go 
fishing  with  him ;  he  was  very  kind  to  me. 
Bell  always  says — " 

"Yes — yes;  it  does  not  matter  about  chil- 
dren ;  but  you  are  not  a  child  now,  Margaret. 
Have  you  always  kept  on  such — intimate  terms 
with  Rob  Glen?" 

Margaret  winced,  and  her  face  began  to  burn. 
He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  speaking  brutally  to 
her ;   but  what  else  could  he  say  ? 

"I  did  not  see  him  at  all  for  a  long  time," 
she  said;  "and  then  he  came  back.  He  al- 
ways said  he  was  not  —  as  good  as  we  were. 
But  do  you  think  it  all  depends  upon  where  you 
are  born?    You  can't  help  where  you  are  born." 

"No;  but  you  must  be  content  with  it,  and 
keep  to  your  own  place,"  said  Ludovic,  an  argu- 
ment which  did  not  make  much  impression  on 
his  own  mind. 

"But  he  is  very  clever;  he  can  draw  most 
beautifully,"  said  Margaret.  "The  first  time 
he  came —  It  was  —  papa  that  said  he  might 
come." 

The  name  brought  with  it,  as  was  natural,  a 
sob ;  and  Ludovic,  horribly  compunctious,  patted 
his  little  sister  on  the  shoulder  with  a.  kind  and 
lingering  hand. 

"  He  made  a  picture  of  him,"  cried  Margaret, 
half  inarticulate,  struggling  with  the  "climbing 
sorrow."  "Oh,  Loodie!  I  found  it  just  yester- 
day; it  is  him,  his  very  self." 

"My  poor  little  Margaret!  don't  think  me 
cruel,"  said  the  good  man,  with  a  break  in  his 
voice.     "  I  must  hear." 

"Yes,  Ludovic.  He  used  to  come  often,  and 
sometimes  would  cheer  him  up  and  make  him 
laugh.  And  he  grew  —  a  great  friend.  Then, 
when  he  was  ill,  when  I  went  out  to  cry — I  could 
not  cry  when  everybody  was  there." 

"  My  poor  child  !" 

"That  was  the  first  time  I  met  him  in  the 
wood.  He  was  very,  very  kind.  I — could  do 
nothing  but  cry." 

Ludovic  took  her  hand  into  his,  and  held  it 
between  his  own.  He  was  beginning  to  under- 
stand. 

"I  see  how  it  was,"  he  said,  his  voice  not  so 
steady  as  at  first.  "I  see  exactly  how  it  was; 
and  I  don't  blame  you,  my  dear.  But,  Marga- 
ret, has  he  taken  advantage  of  this?  Has  he 
got  you  to  promise — to  marry  him?  Is  that 
what  he  talks  to  you  about?  Forget  I  am  an 
old  man,  old  to  the  like  of  you — or  rather  think 
that  I  am  your  father,  Margaret." 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  that;  no 
one  will  ever  be  that  again ;  but  you  are  very 


kind.  My  father — would  have  been  pleased  to 
see  how  kind  you  are." 

"  God  knows — and  my  poor  father  too,  if  he 
knows  anything  of  what  he's  left  behind  him — 
that  I  want  to  be  kind  to  you,  as  kind  as  he 
could  have  been,  my  poor  little  Margaret.  Tell 
me  then,  dear,  has  this  young  man  spoken  of 
marriage  to  you,  and  love  ?" 

"Of  love?  oh  yes!"  said  Margaret,  drooping 
her  head.  "I  am  not  sure  about  the  other. 
He  was  for  going  away  yesterday  when  I  told 
him  I  had  a  fortune;  and  I  had  to  tell  him  my- 
self that  was  no  reason  for  going  away,  that 
there  would  be  plenty  for  us  both." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  you  promised  to  marry 
him,  Margaret?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  slowly;  "I  did 
not  think  of  that.  I  suppose,  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it " —  the  color  had  all  gone  out  of 
her  face,  and  she  was  quite  pale  again,  and  let- 
ting the  words  fall  more  and  more  slowly  — 
"  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  though  I  never 
did  stop  to  think — that  is  what  it  would  mean." 

There  was  a  touch  of  regret  in  her  tone,  a 
weary  acknowledgment  of  necessity,  but  no 
blushing  pride  or  fervor.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  her  before;  but  being  put  to  her,  it  must,  no 
doubt,  mean  that.  She  did  not  look  at  her 
brother,  but  at  the  ground ;  but  not  to  hide  any 
happy  flush  of  consciousness.  Ludovic  was  half 
bewildered,  half  irritated  by  her  calm. 

"But,  Margaret,"  he  cried,  "you  cannot 
think  what  you  are  saying.  This  must  be  put 
a  stop  to ;  it  must  be  brought  to  an  end !  it  is 
monstrous;  it  is  impossible!  My  dear,  you  can- 
not really  have  the  least  idea  what  you  are  do- 
ing. Giving  yourself  up  to  the  first  fortune- 
hunter  that  appears — a  vulgar  fellow  without  a 
penny,  without  even  the  position  of  a  gentleman. 
He  has  taken  a  base  advantage  of  your  youth 
and  your  trouble.  It  must  be  put  a  stop  to," 
he  said.  He  had  dropped  her  hand  and  with- 
drawn from  her  side,  and  was  crushing  the 
damp  grass  under  his  feet  with  all  those  fret- 
tings  and  fidgetings  of  embarrassment  and  irri- 
tation of  which  his  wife  was  afraid. 

Margaret  had  looked  up  at  him  again.  She 
was  quite  quiet,  but  as  steady  as  a  statue. 

"How  can  it  be  put  a  stop  to?"  she  said. 
"He  is  not  what  you  say,  Ludovic;  he  is  very 
kind." 

"Margaret!  are  you  in  love  with  him?" 
cried  her  brother;  "is  that  what  you  mean?" 

A  slight  color  wavered  over  Margaret's  face. 

"  It  is  he  that  is — that,"  she  said,  softly. 

This  gave  Ludovic,  ignorant  man,  courage. 

"  Heaven  be  praised  if  it  is  only  he!  I  would 
make  short  work  with  him.  The  only  difficulty 
would  be  to  make  you  unhappy.  My  dear,  I 
will  see  him  this  very  day,  and  you  shall  never 
be  troubled  with  him  any  more." 

"He  has  not  been  a  trouble  at  all,  Ludovic. 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  kind  he  was ;  and  yester- 
day again  he  was  very  kind.  He  would  have 
gone  away  if  I  had  let  him,  but  I  would  not  let 
him." 

"Now  that  you  see  how  serious  it  is,  my 
dear,"  said  Ludovic,  "you  will  let  him  now?  I 
will  go  and  see  him  at  once.  I  will  lose  no 
time.  Go  you  back  to  the  house,  and  don't  say 
anything  to  Jean.  Speak  to  Mary,  if  you  like, 
but  not  to  Jean  ;   and  don't  give  yourself  any 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


89 


more  trouble  about  it,  my  dear ;  I  will  manage 
it  all." 

But  Margaret  did  not  move ;  she  stood  very 
steadily,  all  the  trembling  gone  away  from  her, 
the  tears  dried  from  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
shining.  These  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the 
ground,  and  her  head  was  drooping,  but  she 
showed  no  other  signs  of  emotion. 

"Ludovic,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  it  is  a  mistake 
you  are  making ;  it  cannot  be  settled  so  easily. 
Indeed,  it  would  be  better  just  to  let  it  alone," 
she  added,  after  a  pause. 

"Let  it  alone!"  cried  Sir  Ludovic;  "that  is 
just  the  thing  that  cannot  be  done." 

Margaret  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his 
arm.  She  raised  her  head  with  a  slight,  proud 
elevation,  unlike  anything  that  had  been  seen  in 
it  before. 

"You  must  not  meddle  with  me,"  she  said, 
with  a  wistful  look,  half  warning,  half  entreating. 

"  But  I  must  meddle  with  you,  my  dear.  You 
must  not  go  to  your  ruin ;  you  cannot  be  allow- 
ed to  go." 

"Don't  meddle  with  me,  Ludovic!  I  have 
never  been  meddled  with.  You  need  not  think 
I  will  do  anything  wrong." 

"I  must  act  according  to  my  judgment,  Mar- 
garet. You  are  too  young  to  know  what  you  are 
doing.  I  must  save  you  from  this  adventurer. 
You  do  not  even  care  about  him.  I  know  how 
a  girl  looks  when  she  is  in  love :  not  as  you  do, 
Margaret,  thank  God  for  it ;  and  that  is  the  one 
thing  of  any  importance.     I  must  interfere." 

"t  do  not  want  to  be  disobedient," she  said; 
"but,  Ludovic,  you  know  there  must  be  some 
things  that  are  my  own.  You  cannot  judge  for 
me  always,  nor  Jean  either.  And  whatever  you 
may  say  about  this,  I  will  not  do  it ;  anything 
else !  but  about  this  I  will  not  do  it.  It  is  very, 
very  difficult  to  say  so,  when  you  are  so  kind ; 
but  I  cannot,  and  do  not  bid  me,  Ludovic ;  oh, 
do  not  bid  me,  for  I  will  not!"  she  said. 

"But  if  I  tell  you  you  must!"  He  was  en- 
tirely out  of  patience.  What  fantas-jic  piece 
of  folly  was  this  that  had  made  her  set  herself 
against  him  like  a  rock  ?  He  was  beyond  his 
own  control  with  impatience  and  irritation.  "  I 
hope  you  will  not  drive  me  to  say  something  I 
will  be  sorry  for,"  he  said.  "  You,  Margaret, 
who  have  always  been  a  good  girl,  and  you  don't 
even  care  for  this  young  man!" 

11  He  cares,"  said  Margaret,  under  her  breath. 

"  Is  that  why  you  resist  me  ?"  cried  her  broth- 
er, "i/e  cares!  yes,  for  your  money,  you  fool- 
ish girl — for  what  you  have  got ;  because  he  will 
be  able  to  live  and  think  himself  a  gentleman !" 

"Ludovic!"  she  cried,  her  face  growing  crim- 
son ;  "  but  you  are  only  angry  ;  you  don't  mean 
to  be  so  unkind." 

And  then  he  stopped  short,  touched,  in  the 
midst  of  his  anger,  by  the  simplicity  of  her  con- 
fidence. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me— that  you  are  really 
going  to  marry — Rob  Glen,  Margaret?" 

"Oh!  but  not  for  such  a  long,  long  time!" 
she  said. 

What  was  he  to  say  to  her — a  girl  so  simple, 
so  almost  childish,  so  unyielding?  If  Mary  had 
only  done  it  herself!  probably  she  would  have 
had  some  means  of  insight  into  this  strange,  sub- 
tle girl's  mechanism  which  was  out  of  his  way. 
What  was  reason,  argument,  common-sense,  to 


a  creature  like  this,  who  refused  to  abandon  her 
lover,  and  yet  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  at  the 
thought  that  it  must  be  "a  long,  long  time  "  be- 
fore he  could  claim  her?  Sir  Ludovic  was  at 
his  wit's  end.  They  had  been  walking  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  house,  where,  out  of  reach 
of  all  the  windows,  their  conversation  was  quite 
safe.  The  grassy  path  was  damp,  but  it  was 
noiseless,  affording  no  interruption  to  their  talk. 
On  the  ruined  gable  the  tall  wall-flowers  were 
nodding,  and  the  ivy  threw  a  little  shower  of 
rain-drops  over  them  whenever  the  wind  blew. 
Looking  up  at  that  ruined  gable  reminded  him 
of  all  his  own  cares,  so  much  more  important 
than  this  love  nonsense.  Should  he  ever  be  able 
to  rebuild  it?  But  in  the  mean  time  he  must 
not  think  of  this  question  at  all,  but  address  him- 
self to  the  still  more  difficult  subject  of  Rob  Glen. 

When  the  conversation,  however,  had  come  to 
this  pass,  beyond  which  it  seemed  so  difficult  to 
carry  it,  an  interruption  occurred.  A  lumbering 
old  hackney-carriage,  well  known  in  the  country, 
which  carried  everybody  to  and  from  the  station, 
of  the  few  who  wanted  any  other  means  of  con- 
veyance but  their  own  legs  or  their  own  carriage 
— and  there  were  not  many  people  of  this  inter- 
mediate class  in  Stratheden — suddenly  swung  in 
heavily  at  the  gate,  and  sinking  deep  in  the  rut, 
which  it  went  to  Ludovic's  heart  to  see,  disfig- 
uring the  muddy  road  through  the  scanty  trees, 
which  called  itself  the  avenue  —  came  laboring 
toward  them.  There  was  a  portmanteau  on  the 
outside  of  this  vehicle,  and  somebody  within,  who 
thrust  out  his  head  as  he  approached,  reconnoi- 
tring the  curious  old  gray  house.  When  he  saw 
the  two  figures  advancing  from  the  other  side, 
he  called  to  the  driver  and  leaped  out.  It  was  a 
young  man,  fair  and  fashionable,  and  spotless  in 
apparel,  with  a  beardless  but  not  boyish  face,  an 
eyeglass  in  his  eye  and  a  great-coat  on  his  arm. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "I  am  sure  that  I  am 
speaking  to — " 

While  at  the  same  time  Ludovic  Leslie,  leav- 
ing Margaret,  upon  whom  the  stranger  had  al- 
ready fixed  a  very  decided  gaze,  went  forward, 
saying, 

"Aubrey  Bellingham — how  do  you  do?  My 
sister  told  us  she  expected  you  to-day." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man,  "here  I  am.  I 
came  up  as  soon  as  I  got  her  summons.  It  is  a 
fine  thing  to  have  nothing  to  do,  for  then  one  is 
always  at  the  call  of  one's  friends.  May  I  be 
presented  to — Miss  Leslie  ?  whom  I  have  heard 
of  so  often.  As  I  am  about  to  enter  her  service, 
don't  you  think  I  should  know  her  at  once  when 
good-fortune  throws  me  in  her  way  ?" 

"Only  Miss  Margaret  Leslie,  Bellingham. 
You  understand,  Margaret,  that  this  is  Jean's 
nephew,  whom  she  was  speaking  of  this  morn- 
ing. I  don't  know  what  he  means  by  entering 
your  service,  but  perhaps  he  can  explain  that 
himself. " 

The  stranger  gave  Margaret  a  very  keen  look 
of  examination — not  the  chance  glance  of  an 
ordinary  meeting,  nor  yet  the  complimentary 
surprise  of  sudden  admiration  of  a  pretty  face. 
The  look  meant  a  great  deal  more  than  this,  and 
might  have  confused  Margaret  if  she  had  not 
been  far  beyond  noticing  anything  of  the  kind. 
He  seemed  to  look,  try,  judge  all  in  a  moment, 
and  the  keen,  sudden  inspection  struck  Sir  Lu- 
dovic, though  he  was  not  very  swift  to  mark  such 


90 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


undercurrents  of  meaning.  It  seemed  to  take 
a  long  time,  so  searching  and  thorough  was  it ; 
and  yet  almost  before  Ludovic's  voice  had  ceased 
to  vibrate,  Bellingham  replied, 

"I  believe  I  am  to  be  the  courier  of  the  party, 
which  is  the  same  as  entering  Miss  Leslie's  ser- 
vice. My  aunts  are  used  to  me.  Miss  Leslie, 
it  is  a  very  quaint  relationship  this  of  yours  to 
my  aunts.  I  call  both  your  sisters  by  that  en- 
dearing title." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  make  my  little 
sister  into  Aunt  Margaret,"  said  Sir  Ludovic. 
' '  Perhaps,  my  dear,  you  had  better  go  and  tell 
Jean  of  Mr.  Bellingham's  arrival.  I  don't  know 
what  you  will  think,"  he  added,  escaping  with 
some  relief,  as  Margaret  hurried  away,  into  the 
more  habitual  current  of  his  thoughts,  "of  my 
tumble-down  old  house." 

"  It  is  a  most  curious  old  house,"  said  the 
stranger  ;  "  I  can  see  that  already.  I  have  been 
studying  it  all  the  time ;  fifteenth  century,  do 
you  suppose?  Domestic  architecture  is  always 
a  little  bewildering.  I  know  there  are  people 
who  can  read  it  like  a  church,  but  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  be  clever  about  it.  It  always  puzzles 
me." 

"No  doubt  it  is  puzzling,  when  you  know 
only  a  little  about  it,"  said  Ludovic,  who  knew 
nothing  at  all. 

"That  is  just  my  case,"  said  the  other,  cheer- 
fully. "  I  have  been  taught  just  a  little  of  most 
things.  It  is  very  unsatisfactory.  Indeed,  to 
have  the  reputation  of  a  handy  man  in  a  large 
,family  party  is  ruin  to  everything.  You  can 
neither  work  nor  study :  and  when  you  are 
cursed,  in  addition,  with  a  little  good-nature — " 

"A  large  share  of  that,"  Sir  Ludovic  said, 
chiefly  because  it  seemed  to  him  the  only  thing 
to  say ;  and  it  was  very  good-natured,  indeed, 
for  a  young  man,  a  man  so  entirely  comme  il 
faut,  and  looking  more  like  Pall  Mall  than  Earl's- 
hall,  to  come  when  his  aunt  called  him  so  readi- 
ly. Ludovic  knew  he  himself  would  not  have 
done  it  for  any  number  of  old  ladies,  but  then 
he  had  always  had  his  profession  to  think  of; 
and  how  many  things  he  had  at  this  moment  to 
think  of!  Thank  Heaven,  at  least  he  had  got 
rid  of  Margaret's  affairs  for  the  moment.  Let 
Mary  put  her  own  brains  to  work  and  see  what 
she  could  make  of  it.  For  himself,  there  was  a 
certain  relief  in  the  sight  of  a  new  face.  In  the 
mean  time,  while  Sir  Ludovic's  mind  was  thus 
condoling  with  itself,  the  new  arrival  had  paid 
his  cab,  and  seen  his  portmanteau  handed  over 
to  John,  who  had  made  his  appearance  at  the 
sound  of  the  wheels. 

"For  some  things,  sir,"  said  yonng  Belling- 
ham. peering  at  John  through  his  eyeglass, 
"this  is  a  delightful  country.  Fancy  your  old 
butler,  who  looks  an  archbishop  at  least",  meekly 
carrying  off  my  portmanteau !  If  he  had  been 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Tweed,  he  would  have 
looked  at  it  helplessly,  and  requested  to  know 
what  he  was  supposed  to  have  to  do  with  such 
an  article." 

"John  is  not  used  to  much  grandeur,"  said 
Sir  Ludovic,  not  knowing  whether  this  was 
compliment  or  depreciation;  "a  man -of- all- 
work  about  a  homely  Scotch  country-house  is 
not  like  one  of  your  pampered  menials  in  the 
South.  Did  you  have  a  good  crossing  at  the 
Ferry?" 


There  are  times  when  the  Ferry  at  Burntisl- 
and is  not  much  more  agreeable  than  the  worse 
ferry  at  Dover,  and  it  was  always  a  civil  question 
—though  privately  he  thought  "that  a  little  toss- 
ing, or  even  a  little  sea-sickness,  would  not  have 
done  any  harm  to  this  spruce  gentleman.  Lu- 
dovic felt  plainer,  rustier,  in  his  old  black  coat, 
which  had  seen  much  service  at  his  office,  since 
this  carefully  dressed  young  hero  had  dawned 
upon  the  horizon.  He  felt  instinctively  that  he 
did  not  like  him  ;  though  nothing  could  be  more 
cheerful  or  friendly  than  Mr.  Aubrey  Belling- 
ham. He  was  good  enough  to  explain  the 
house  to  its  master  as  they  went  in,  and  told 
him  why  the  screen  wall  between  the  two  blocks 
of  building  existed,  and  all  about  it.  Ludovic 
was  so  startled  that  he  found  nothing  to  reply ; 
he  had  even  a  little  heraldic  lecture  upon  his  own 
coat-of-arms  over  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

There  was  quite  a  cheerful  flutter  of  talk  at 
the  luncheon-table  in  the  long  room.  Sir  Ludo- 
vic had  never  much  to  say,  and  his  wife  was  very 
anxious  to  know  the  result  of  his  interview  with 
Margaret,  and  EfEe  was  shy,  and  Margaret  her- 
self perfectly  silent.  But  the  rapid  interchange 
of  question  and  answer  between  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham and  her  nephew  made  the  most  lively  com- 
motion, and  stirred  all  the  echoes  in  the  quiet 
place,  where  nobody  as  yet  had  ventured  upon  a 
laugh.  It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  Aubrey 
Bellingham,  who  was  a  stranger  and  had  never 
seen  the  old  Sir  Ludovic,  could  be  much  sub- 
dued in  his  tone  by  "  what  had  happened" — and 
Jean  had  already  begun  to  feel  that  there  was 
really  no  reason  to  regret  such  a  happy  release. 

"I  am  just  beginning  to  be  able  to  look  peo- 
ple in  the  face  again,"  she  said.  "I  need  not 
tell  you,  Aubrey,  it  has  been  a  dreadful  time. 
My  sister  and  I  have  had  a  great  deal  to  do,  and 
naturally,  though  it  may  not  tell  at  the  time,  one 
feels  it  afterward.  I  did  not  leave  my  room  yes- 
terday at  all.  Grace  will  tell  you  I  had  one  of 
my  bad  headaches.  But  what  with  seeing  you 
to-day,  and  being  obliged  to  bestir  myself  in  the 
morning  about  some  business,  a  piece  of  work 
quite  after  your  own  heart,  Aubrey,  arranging 
some  lace." 

"If  it  is  fine,  I  quite  understand  the  improve- 
ment in  your  health,"  he  said.  "What  kind? 
and  who  is  the  happy  possessor  ?  I  hope  some 
of  it  has  fallen  to  your  share." 

"Oh,  a  little,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham;  and 
Grace  echoed  "a  little"  with  some  dolefulness. 

This  division  of  the  stores  of  the  house  into 
three  portions  had  not  been  so  successful  as  was 
hoped ;  and  when  it  was  again  gone  over,  some 
scraps  naturally  fell  to  Lady  Leslie  and  her 
daughters.  It  was  Miss  Leslie  upon  whom  the 
loss  chiefly  fell,  and  there  was  accordingly  in  her 
tone  a  tinge  of  melancholy.  She  was  not  sorry 
that  dear  Mary  and  the  dear  girls  should  have 
it,  but  still  it  was  notorious  that  she  was  gener- 
ally the  sufferer  when  any  one  had  to  suffer. 

"Margaret  is  the  most  fortunate;  Margaret 
has  a  piece  of  point  de  Venise.  I  never  saw 
such  a  lovely  piece.  It  will  go  to  your  very 
heart.     After  lunch  you  shall  see  it  all,  and  I 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


91 


know  you  will  think  Margaret  a  lucky  girl — too 
lucky !  She  will  not  appreciate  it  for  a  dozen 
years,  and  by  that  time  she  will  have  grown 
familiar  with  it,  and  it  will  not  impress  her," 
said  Mrs.  Bellingham,  regretfully.  "You  don't 
think  half  so  much  of  things  you  have  had  since 
you  were  a  girl.  But  tell  me,  Aubrey,  how  is 
"everybody  ?  Had  you  heard  from  the  Court  be- 
fore you  left?  What  were  they  all  doing?  I 
declare  it  seems  about  a  year  since  we  came 
here  in  such  a  hurry.  I  dare  say  you  have  heard 
.ill  about  us,  and  the  sad  way  in  which  we  have 
been  spending  our  time?  I  have  had  a  great 
deal  of  flying  neuralgia,  and  yesterday  it  quite 
settled  in  my  head.  Scotland  does  not  suit  me, 
I  always  say.  It  does  very  well  for  Grace,  who 
is  as  strong  as  a  pony,  though  she  does  not  look 
it—" 

"  Dearest  Jean  !"  said  Miss  Leslie,  touched  to 
the  quick,  and  this  time  insisting  upon  a  hear- 
ing. "I  strong?  Dear  Aubrey  knows  better 
than  to  believe — " 

"Oh  yes,  we  all  know,  my  dear,  you  are  strong 
at  bottom,  though  you  have  your  little  ailments  ; 
and  with  me  it  is  just  the  other  way.  I  am  kept 
up  by  my  spirit.  Now,  Aubrey,  you  have  not 
given  us  one  single  piece  of  news.  Tell  us  some- 
thing about  the  Court." 

"I  appeal  to  your  candor,  Aunt  Jean;  what 
can  I  tell  you  about  the  Court  when  I  am  fresh 
from  town? — unless  you  mean  the  other  kind  of 
a  court,  the  royal  one,  or  the  Club.  You  shall 
hear,  if  you  please,  about  the  Club.  You  know 
about  that  trial  that  was  so  much  talked  of?  It 
is  to  be  all  hushed  up,  I  believe.  She  is  to  be 
condoned,  and  he  is  to  have  his  debts  paid,  and 
they  are  all  to  live  happy  ever  after.  You  should 
hear  Mountfort  on  the  subject.  He  says  it  will 
not  be  six  months  before  it  is  all  on  again,  and 
the  detectives  at  work." 

" Is  it  possible ?"  cried  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "I 
thought  Lady  Arabella  had  really  taken  the  last 
step  and  run  off,  you  know,  in  the  yacht ;  and 
that  Lord  Fred — " 

"No  names,  my  dear  aunt,  I  entreat.  Of 
course,  everybody  knows  who  is  meant,  but  it  is 
better  not  to  bandy  names  about.  Oh  no ;  my 
lady  would  have  done  it,  I  don't  doubt  for  a 
moment,  but  Fred  is  a  fellow  who  knows  very 
well  how  far  the  world  will  permit  you  to  go, 
and  he  wouldn't  hear  of  it ;  so  it  is  all  hushed 
up.  There  is  something  very  piquant,  however, 
going  on  in  another  quarter,  where  you  would 
never  suspect  it.  It  sounds  just  like  a  romance. 
A  couple  that  have  always  been  one  of  the  most 
devoted  couples,  and  a  friend  who  has  been  the 
most  devoted  friend  —  husband's  school-fellow, 
you  know,  and  saved  his  life  in  India,  or  some- 
thing— and  there  they  are,  the  three  of  them ; 
everybody  sees  it,  except  the  silly  fellow  himself. 
It's  as  good  as  a  play  to  watch  them ;  you  know 
whom  I  mean.  They  have  a  place  not  a  hun- 
dred miles  from  us ;  wife  the  most  innocent", 
smiling  creature — " 

"Ah!"  cried  Miss  Leslie,  holding  up  her 
hands,  "  I  can  see  who  you  me — " 

"  Of  course,  anybody  can  see,"  said  Mrs.  Bel- 
lingham. "The  A.'s,  of  course,  of  A.  C.  Do 
you  really  mean  it,  Aubrey?  and  the  man? 
Goodness  gracious !  why,  of  course  it  must  be ! 
— no — not  that,  don't  say  so — Algy —  ?  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  complication  in  all  my  life." 


"Exactly,"  said  the  new-comer;  "that  is 
what  everybody  says.  Algy,  of  all  men  in  the 
world,  with  a  character  to  lose !  But  in  this 
sort  of  affair  you  never  can  trust  any  one;  and 
still  waters  run  deep,  you  know.  It  is  the 
woman  that  puzzles  me,  smiling  and  looking  so 
innocent.  Happily  Sir  Cresswell  Cresswell  does 
not  want  a  jury,  for  no  jury  would  ever  go 
against  such  an  innocent-looking  little  woman." 

Effie  had  been  taking  all  this  mysterious  talk 
in  with  the  most  rapt  attention.  She  did  not 
understand  a  word  of  it,  but  still  a  lively  discus- 
sion of  other  people,  even  when  you  don't  know 
who  they  are,  and  don't  know  what  they  are  ac- 
cused of,  has  a  certain  interest.  But  Sir  Cress- 
well Cresswell's  well-known  name  roused  Lady 
Leslie,  who  had  been  longing  to  interfere  be- 
fore, and  woke  up  even  Ludovic,  who  had  been 
eating  his  luncheon  steadily,  and  thinking  how 
the  avenue  could  be  put  in  order  at  the  least 
expense.  What  did  he  care  for  their  chatter? 
But  this  name  woke  the  good  man  up. 

"You  will  think  me  very  stupid,"  said  Lady 
Leslie,  "but  we  are  only  plain  Scotch  people,  you 
know,  and  very  seldom  go  to  England,  and  don't 
know  about  your  friends.  I  dare  say  Mr.  Aubrey 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  us  something  about 
the  Court,  as  he  said — not  Bellingham  Court, 
but  the  Queen's  Court.  Effie  would  like  to  hear 
about  the  princes  and  princesses,  and  so  would 
Margaret.  They  say  we  are  going  to  have  one 
of  them  up  here." 

"Oh,  surely,"  said  Aubrey,  "there  is  always 
plenty  of  talk  on  that  subject.  Most  of  them 
are  going  a  frightful  pace.  I  am  not  posted  up 
in  the  very  last  scandals,  for,  you  know,  I  have 
never  been  a  favorite.  But  there  is  a  very  pretty 
story  current  about  a  pretty  Galician  or  Wal- 
lachian,  or  some  of  those  savage  tribes.  The 
lady,  of  course,  was  quite  civilized  enough  to 
know  all  about  the  proprieties  —  or  perhaps  it 
would  be  better  to  say  the  improprieties — of  our 
princely  society,  and  she  thought,  I  suppose,  that 
an  English  Royalty — " 

"Oh!"  said  Lady  Leslie;  "but  I  feel  sure 
half  these  stories  are  nonsense,  or  worse  than 
nonsense.  I  know  you  gentlemen  are  fond  of 
a  little  gossip  at  your  club,  and  I  suppose  you 
don't  mean  the  half  of  what  you  say.  Were  the 
pictures  fine  this  year,  Mr.  Bellingham  ?  That 
is  one  thing  I  regret  never  going  to  London  for ; 
one  sees  so  few  pictures." 

"I  think  everybody  who  has  seen  them  will 
agree  with  me  in  saying  the  fewer  the  better," 
said  Bellingham,  ready  for  all  subjects.  "  The 
dinner  this  year  was  as  great  bosh  as  usual.  But 
there  is  a  very  good  story  about  an  R.A.  who 
asked  a  great"  lady  he  happened  to  meet  with 
how  she  liked  the  portrait  of  her  husband.  It 
was  her  Grace  of  X.,  or  Y.,  or  Z. — never  mind 
who;  I  dare  say  you  will  all  guess.  She  stared 
at  him,  as  you  may  suppose.  But  he  insisted. 
'Oh  yes,  he  had  finished  it  a  month  before; 
and  he  always  understood  it  was  the  Duchess 
herself  who  had  suggested  that  pose  which  was 
so  successful!'  Fancy  the  unfortunate  fellow's 
feelings  when  he  saw  what  he  had  done !  And 
I  hope  her  Grace  gave  it  hot  and  hot  to  the 
Duke." 

"  There,  Aubrey,  that  will  do ;  that  is  enough 
of  your  funny  stories.  They  are  not  pretty  sto- 
ries at  all,  though  sometimes  they  make  one 


92 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


laugh  when  one  oughtn't,"  said  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham.  "Those  clubs  of  yours  are  not  at  all  nice 
places,  as  my  sister-in-law  says — and  talk  of  wom- 
en's gossip !  But  now  and  then  it  is  like  a  sniff 
of  salts,  you  know,  or  a  vinaigrette,  which  is  not 
nice  in  itself,  but  wakes  one  up.  Now  we  must 
be  going  to-morrow,  or  the  day  after  to-morrow  ; 
and  I  think,  as  you  are  here,  Aubrey,  we  might 
as  well  go  to  Perth,  and  then  make  a  little  round 
through  the  Highlands.  I  dare  say  you  are  go- 
ing somewhere  shooting  as  soon  as  the  moors 
are  open.  We  cannot  do  much  mountain  work, 
because  of  the  sad  circumstances  and  our  crape ; 
but  we  might  stay  for  a  week  in  one  place  and 
a  week  in  another,  and  so  make  our  way  to  the 
Grange  about  the  end  of  August.  That  would 
be  a  very  good  time.  The  very  hot  weather 
will  be  over,  and  it  will  be  best  not  to  try  Mar- 
garet too  much  with  the  heat  of  an  English  sum- 
mer. I  wish  you  would  not  always  interrupt 
me,  Grace.  There  is  never  any  heat  in  Scot- 
land. It  is  rather  fine  now,  and  warmish,  and 
quite  pleasant ;  but  as  for  a  scorching  sun,  and 
that  sort  of  thing —  You  are  very  quiet,  Mar- 
garet.  Has  Ludovic  been  scolding  you  ?  You 
ought  to  leave  that  to  me,  Ludovic  ;  a  man  has 
always  a  heavier  hand.  I  always  said,  if  I  had 
been  blessed  with  children,  I  never  should  have 
let  their  father  correct  them.  Men  mean  very 
well,  but  they  have  a  heavy  hand." 

"But  not  dearest  Loodie !"  cried  Miss  Leslie ; 
"he  always  was  the  kindest!  and  dear  Jean 
knows  as  well  as  any  of  us — " 

"  Yes,  I  know  that  a  man's  hand  is  always 
heavier  than  he  thinks,  whether  it  is  a  simple 
scolding  or  something  more  serious.  Margaret 
looks  like  a  little  mouse,  with  all  the  spirits  out 
of  her.  If  she  comes  in  like  that  after  walks 
with  you,  Ludovic,  I  don't  think  I  will  trust  her 
With  you  again." 

"Margaret  has  not  been  very  lively  lately," 
said  kind  Lady  Leslie.  "She  has  not  been 
keeping  us  all  in  amusement,  like  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham.  I  think  I  will  take  the  two  girls  away 
with  me  this  afternoon,  if  you  have  no  objec- 
tions, Jean.  I  am  going  to  the  Manse  to  see 
Mrs.  Burnside,  and  the  walk  will  do  Margaret 
good." 

"  Will  you  speak  to  Mrs.  Burnside,  please, 
about  giving  Aubrey  a  bed  ?"  Mrs.  Bellingham 
said ;  and  Lady  Leslie,  who  was  anxious  about 
her  husband's  interview  with  his  sister,  and  not 
at  all  anxious  to  cultivate  Aubrey's  acquaintance, 
hurried  them  away.  She  had  a  hasty  interview 
with  Ludovic  before  she  went  out,  who  was  very 
anxious  she  should  take  the  business  into  her 
own  hands.  What  was  to  be  done?  Would  it 
be  better  to  say  nothing  at  all  about  it,  but  trust 
to  the  "long,  long  time,"  and  the  distance,  and 
the  development  of  the  girl's  mind  ? 

"But  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  marry  Rob 
Glen  than  Aubrey  Bellingham,  with  all  his  nasty 
stories,"  Lady  Leslie  said,  indignantly. 

"What  was  the  fellow  talking  about?"  asked 
Ludovic.  He  had  not  paid  any  attention,  save 
for  one  moment,  at  the  sound  of  that  too  remark- 
able name ;  but  it  had  not  come  to  anything 
except  "havers,"  and  he  had  resumed  his  own 
thoughts.  Lady  Leslie,  however,  did  not  let  her 
victim  off  so  easily.  She  insisted  that  he  should 
see  Rob  Glen,  and  warn  him  of  the  disapproval 
of  the  family ;  and  this  at  last,  with  many  sighs 


and  groans,  the  unfortunate  head  of  the  family 
consented  to  do. 

"I  have  been  watching  her  all  the  time,"  said 
the  stranger,  when  he  had  been  taken  by  the  two 
ladies  to  the  West  Chamber,  "and  I  approve. 
She  is  not  very  lively,  and  I  dare  say  she  will 
never  be  amusing  (begging  your  pardons,  my 
dear  aunts,  for  so  plain  a  speech);  but  she  is 
very  pretty,  and  what  you  call  interesting ;  and 
a  little  money,  though  it  is  not  much,  is  always 
acceptable.  I  have  not  come  off  hitherto,  not- 
withstanding my  merits.  You  put  me  up  at  too 
high  a  price,  you  ladies;  and  I  have  gone  through 
a  good  many  seasons  without  ever  fetching  that 
fancy  price.  So  if  you  think  I  have  any  chance, 
really  I  don't  mind.  I  will  go  in  for  Miss  Mar- 
garet seriously,  and  I  will  not  tell  her  naughty 
stories,  but  bring  her  up  in  the  way  she  should 
go." 

"  No ;  you  must  be  more  careful  how  you  talk 
before  young  ladies,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham. 
"People  here  are  not  used  to  it.  My  sister-in- 
law  is  a  very  good  little  body,  but  quite  untrain- 
ed, as  you  would  see.  Yes,  Aubrey,  it  would 
make  me  happy  to  see  dear  Margaret  in  your 
hands.  I  am  sure  you  would  always  be  kind  to 
her.  And  it  is  a  very  nice  little  property,  and 
could  be  improved;  and  she  would  make  you  a 
very  nice  little  wife.  It  would  just  be  the  kind 
of  thing  to  make  me  feel  I  had  all  I  wished  for, 
if  I  could  provide  for  my  little  sister  and  for  you, 
Aubrey,  my  husband's  godchild,  at  the  same 
time." 

"Oh,  we  can't  have  you  take  the  Nunc  Dimit- 
tis  view,"  he  said,  "that  is  out  of  the  question  ; 
but  I  am  quite  willing,  if  she  is;  and  if  she  isn't 
after  a  while,  with  all  my  opportunities,  I  shall 
be  a  precious  fool,  Aunt  Jean.  By-the-way,  it 
is  a  little  odd,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it,  marry- 
ing into  a  previous  generation,  as  I  should  be  do- 
ing if  she'd  have  me — marrying  my  aunt,  isn't 
it?     I  think  it's  within  the  forbidden  degrees." 

"  Margaret  your  aunt,  dear  Aubrey  ?  Dar- 
ling Margaret  is  not  quite  eighteen ;  so  how 
could  that  be?"  said  Miss  Leslie;  "and  do  you 
mean  that  this  is  what  you  were  thinking  of? 
Oh,  I  wondered  what  dear  Jean,  with  her  own 
clever  head,  wanted  Aubrey  for — Jean,  who  can 
manage  everything.  But  how  can  you  tell  wheth- 
er you  will  love  her,  dear  Aubrey  ?  You  cannot 
always  love  where  you  wish  to ;  and  I  never 
would  give  my  consent,  never  for  a  moment,  to 
a  match  which  was  not — " 

"What  nonsense  is  she  talking?"  said  Mrs. 
Bellingham.  She  had  gone  to  get  Margaret's 
lace  to  exhibit,  and  this  was  why  Grace  had 
found  the  occasion  to  address  Aubrey  at  such 
length,  "a  match  which  was  not — something  or 
other;  I  am  sure,  Aubrey,  you  will  fall  in  love, 
as  everybody  does  before  they  marry.  I  suppose 
you  don't  want  to  shut  up  little  Margaret  in  a 
prison  with  you  and  me,  Grace,  and  keep  her 
money,  that  her  husband  might  not  get  the  use 
of  it?  That  would  be  just  like  you  old  maids. 
But  I  mean  Margaret  to  have  a  good  husband, 
and  live  a  happy  life." 

"Dearest  Jean!" said  Miss  Grace,  with  tears. 
"J  keep  dear  Margaret  unmarried,  or  want  her 
money  !  She  shall  have  all  I  have  when  I  die ; 
and  as  for  being  an  old  maid — " 

This  was  a  very  unkind  cut  indeed,  and  Miss 
Leslie  was  unable  to  resist  the  impulse  to  cry. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


93 


Her  tears  were  not  so  interesting  as  Margaret's, 
for  her  nose  became  red,  and  her  short-sighted 
eyes  muddy.  "  I  am  sure  I  have  not  done  any- 
thing to  deserve  this,"  she  said,  and  sobbed  ; 
while  Jean  told'her  not  to  be  so  silly,  and,  with- 
out paying  any  more  attention,  held  up  the  point 
de  Venise,  which  had  belonged  to  Margaret's 
mother,  in  her  plump  hands. 

"  Look  at  that,  Aubrey !  If  all  goes  well,  you 
may  have  a  wife  with  that  upon  her  wedding- 
dress.  Dear  me,  I  think  I  would  almost  marry 
myself  to  have  it.  Is  it  not  lovely  ?  But  Mar- 
garet will  not  care  a  bit ;  no  one  does  at  her 
age.  She  would  think  a  bit  of  common  Valen- 
ciennes from  a  shop  just  as  pretty,  or  perhaps, 
Lord  knows,  imitation  would  please  her.  I  had 
a  piece  myself  in  my  trousseau  not  half  so  good 
as  that,  nor  half  so  much  of  it,  but  still  lace,  you 
know,  real  lace  ;  and  I  let  it  lie  about,  and  wore 
net  ruffs  and  things.  Even  I !  so  you  may  fan- 
cy what  Margaret  will  do.  But  if  it  was  her 
mother's  (and  Bell  swears  it  was),  she  has  a 
right  to  it,"  Mrs.  Bellingham  said,  with  integri- 
ty beyond  praise. 

"It  is  very  nice,  Aunt  Jean,"  said  Aubrey, 
holding  it  to  the  light ;  "  but  I  think  you  are  a 
little  too  enthusiastic.  If  it  is  point  de  Venise, 
it  is  very  late  work — not  the  best.  I  should  be 
disposed  to  say  it  was  point  de  France — very 
pretty  all  the  same,  and  valuable  in  its  way. 
Now  look  at  that  stitch  :  I  don't  think  you 
would  find  that  in  real  old  Venetian.  I  think 
that  is  a  French  stitch.  But  it  is  very  nice,"  he 
added,  looking  at  it  critically,  "  very  nice :  on  a 
dark  velvet  or  brocade,  it  would  look  very  well. 
As  for  putting  it  over  white  satin,  I  never  should 
consent  to  such  a  thing.  Light  point  de  Flan- 
dres,  or  modern  Brussels,  or  Malines,  I  shouldn't 
mind ;  but  Venetian  point,  no.  You  ladies  have 
your  own  ideas ;  but  I  wouldn't  allow  it,  not  if 
my  opinion  was  asked." 

"  You  see,  you  allow  it  is  Venetian,  after  all." 

"Or  point  de  France.  It  is  very  much  the 
same  thing.  Sometimes  you  can  scarcely  tell 
that  it  has  travelled  over  the  Alps.  But  I  think 
I  have  an  eye  for  lace.  Any  china  ?"  said  Au- 
brey, walking  to  a  door  in  the  panelling  and 
opening  it  coolly.  "Ay,  I  thought  it  was  a  cup- 
board.    But  here's  only  common  stuff." 

"  The  best  tea-things  !"said  Miss  Grace,  with 
a  little  shriek,"  that  have  always  been  kept  there 
ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

"  In  that  case,  perhaps  they  are  better  than 
they  appear,"  said  Aubrey,  calmly  ;  and  after  a 
closer  inspection,  he  decided  that  this  was  the 
case.  They  were  Chelsea,  "but  not  much." 
From  this  it  will  be  seen  that  young  Mr.  Bel- 
lingham was  a  young  man  of  extended  and  vari- 
ous information.  He  went  up-stairs  to  the  high 
room  with  them,  and  was  really  excited  by  the 
old  clothes.  The  house,  though  he  appreciated 
its  curiousness,  did  not  otherwise  attract  the 
young  man.  "  If  one  could  spend  a  few  thou- 
sands on  old  oak  and  tapestry,  it  might  be  made 
very  nice,"  he  acknowledged  ;  but  there  were 
some  old  cups  and  saucers  here  and  there  in  the 
various  rooms  which  pleased  him.  And  as  he 
accompanied  the  ladies  up  and  down,  and  ex- 
amined everything,  he  gave  an  occasional  thought 
to  Margaret,  which  ought  to  have  made  her 
proud,  had  she  been  aware  of  the  distinction. 
She  would  do  very  well.     She  was  not  at  all  the 


kind  of  person  whom,  in  such  circumstances,  it 
would  have  been  natural  to  see.  A  red-haired 
young  woman,  with  high  cheek-bones — was  not 
that  the  recognized  type  of  a  Scotch  heiress? 
Aubrey  knew  that  the  conventional  type  does 
not  always  hold  ;  but  he  had  thought  of  Miss 
Leslie's  nose  and  her  short  sight,  and  he  had 
also  thought  of  his  aunt's  plumpness,  and  that 
peculiarity  of  tone  which  many  Scotchwomen  in 
England  attain,  with  the  proud  consciousness  of 
having  lost  all  their  native  accent. 

There  are  few  things  so  disagreeably  provin- 
cial as  this  tone,  which  is  not  Scotch,  which  is 
the  very  triumph  and  proclaimed  conviction  of 
having  shaken  off  Scotch  and  acquired  the  finest 
of  Southern  speech.  Aubrey  had  been  afraid  of 
all  these  things ;  but  Margaret  had  not  come  up 
to  the  conventional  requirements  of  her  position. 
Her  soft  native  Fife,  even  with  its  modulations, 
did  not  alarm  him  like  Aunt  Jean's  high  Eng- 
lish, and  her  nose  would  never  be  like  that  of 
Aunt  Grace.  Altogether,  she  was  an  unexcep- 
tionable heiress,  sweet  and  sorrowful,  and  "  in- 
teresting." It  was  a  commonplace  sort  of  word, 
but  yet  even  a  superfine  young  man  is  some- 
times obliged  to  use  such  ordinary  mediums  of 
expression.  For  a  man  who,  previously  set  up 
at  much  too  high  a  figure  (to  quote  his  own  met- 
aphor), and  commanding  no  offers,  was  ready  to 
accept  a  moderate  fortune  even  under  disadvan- 
tageous conditions,  the  thought  of  a  nice  little 
property,  weighted  only  by  Margaret,  was  very 
consolatory  indeed. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Next  day  was  Sunday,  the  last  day  that  Mar- 
garet was  to  spend  at  home  ;  not  like  the  brill- 
iant Sunday  on  which  old  Sir  Ludovic,  for  the 
last  time,  attended  "a  diet  of  worship"  in  the 
parish  church,  and  was  reminded  of  his  latter 
end'  by  good  Dr.  Burnside ;  but  gray,  and  dull, 
and  cloudy,  with  no  light  on  the  horizon,  and 
the  whole  landscape,  hill  and  valley  and  sea,  all 
expressed  in  different  tones  of  a  flat  lead  color, 
the  change  of  all  others  which  most  affects  the 
landscape.  In  Fife,  as  has  been  candidly  allow- 
ed, the  features  of  the  country  have  no  splendor 
or  native  nobleness ;  and  accordingly  there  is 
no  power  in  them  to  resist  this  invasion  of  gray- 
ness.  Mr.  Aubrey  Bellingham,  though  he  did 
pretend  to  "go  in"  for  the  beauties  of  nature, 
intimated  very  plainly  his  discontent  with  the 
scene  before  him. 

"Anything  poorer  in  the  way  of  landscape 
I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw,"  he  said,  and  sigh- 
ed, when  he  was  made  to  take  his  place  in  the 
old  carriage  to  be  driven  to  Fifeton,  to  the 
"English  Chapel."  It  was  six  miles  off;  where- 
as the  parish  church,  with  the  Norman  chancel, 
was  scarcely  one.  But,  as  Mrs.  Bellingham  said, 
if  you  do  not  hold  by  your  church,  what  is  to 
become  of  you  ? 

"Only  the  common  people  go  there,"  she 
said — "the  farmers,  and  so  forth.  The  gentry 
are  all  Episcopalian.  My  brother,  Sir  Ludovic, 
may  go  now  and  then  for  the  sake  of  example, 
and  because  Dr.  Burnside  is  an  old  family  friend  ; 
but  Sir  Claude,  and  everybody  of  importance, 
you  will  find  at  our  church.     All  the  elite  go 


94 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


there.  I  can't  think  what  the  gentry  were  think- 
ing of,  to  allow  the  Presbyterians  to  seize  the 
endowments.  It  is  quite  the  other  way  in  Eng- 
land, where  it  is  the  common  people  who  are 
dissenters,  and  we  have  a  church  which  is  really 
fit  for  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  go  to.  But  things 
are  all  very  queer  in  Scotland,  Aubrey.  That 
is  one  thing,  I  suppose,  that  gives  the  common 
people  such  very  independent  ways." 

"Well,  Aunt  Jean,  let  us  be  thankful  we  were 
not  born  to  set  it  right,"  said  Aubrey,  recon- 
ciled to  see  that  his  six-miles'  drive  was  to  be  in 
company  with  Margaret.  But  she,  in  her  deep 
mourning,  did  not  afford  much  good  diversion 
during  the  drive.  The  fact  that  it  was  the  last 
day — the  last  day !  had  at  length  penetrated  her 
mind ;  and  a  vague  horror  of  what  might  hap- 
pen, of  something  hanging  over  her  which  she 
did  not  understand,  of  leave-takings,  and  engage- 
ments to  be  entered  into  and  promises  to  be 
made,  had  come  over  Margaret  like  a  cloud. 
She  had  passively  obeyed  her  sisters'  orders,  and 
followed  them  into  the  carriage,  though  not  with- 
out an  acute  recollection  of  her  last  drive  in  that 
carriage  by  her  father's  side  at  a  time  when  she 
was  not  passive  at  all,  but  liked  her  own  way 
and  had  it,  and  was  not  aware  how  happy  she 
was. 

Margaret  took  all  the  other  changes  as  sec- 
ondary to  the  one  great  change,  and  did  not  feel 
them  as  an  old  man's  darling,  a  somewhat  spoil- 
ed child,  accustomed  to  unlimited  indulgence  for 
all  her  fancies,  might  have  been  expected  to  do. 
But  her  individuality  came  back  to  her,  and  with 
it  a  sense  of  unknown  troubles  to  be  encoun- 
tered, as  she  leaned  back  in  her  corner,  saying 
nothing.  She  drew  herself  as  far  as  possible 
away  from  Aubrey  Bellingham,  and  she  let  her 
veil  drop,  with  its  heavy  burden  of  crape,  and 
took  refuge  within  herself.  She  had  to  part 
with  her  home,  and  Bell  and  John,  the  attend- 
ants of  her  life,  but,  more  alarming  still  and 
strange,  she  had  to  part  with  Rob  Glen.  Ludo- 
vic's  interposition  had  increased  tenfold  the  im- 
portance of  everything  about  Rob  Glen,  the  cir- 
cumstances of  which  she  had  thought  so  little 
when  the  first  step  had  been  taken.  How  could 
she  have  thought  of  the  young  man's  position, 
or  of  any  consequences  that  might  follow,  at  the 
moment  when  her  father  lay  dying?  Rob  had 
been  very  kind ;  his  tenderness,  his  caresses, 
had  gone  to  her  heart.  There  were  indeed  mo- 
ments, after  the  first,  when  they  no  longer  im- 
pressed her  with  such  a  sense  of  kindness,  when 
she  would  have  been  glad  enough  to  avoid  the 
close  contact,  and  when  the  touch  of  his  arm 
round  her  gave  Margaret  a  sense  of  shy  shrink- 
ing, rather  than  of  the  utter  confidence  and 
soothing  which  she  had  felt  at  first — and  when 
she  had  not  liked  to  vex  him  by  resistance,  but 
had  edged  and  shrunk  away,  and  made  herself 
as  small  as  possible  to  avoid  the  embarrassing 
pressure. 

But  all  this  vague  shyness  and  shrinking  had 
changed  at  their  last  interview,  when  Margaret, 
in  generous  impetuosity,  and  terror  lest  he  should 
think  she  considered  herself  raised  above  him 
by  her  fortune,  had  taken  the  matter  into  her 
own  hands  and  made  all  the  vague  ties  defi- 
nite. What  an  extraordinary  sensation  it  was 
to  feel  that  she  belonged  to  him — she,  Margaret 
Leslie,  to  him,  Rob  Glen !     She  could  not  real- 


ize or  understand  it,  but  felt,  with  a  sense  of 
giddiness  through  her  whole  being,  that  some- 
thing existed  which  bound  her  to  him  forever. 
Yes,  no  doubt,  when  you  came  to  think  of  it, 
that  was  what  it  meant.  She  had  not  been 
aware  of  it  at  first,  but  this  no  doubt  was  how  it 
was.  And  Ludovic's  questioning  had  made  it 
all  so  much  more  real.  After  what  her  brother 
had  said,  there  was  no  avoiding  the  certainty. 

Between  Rob  Glen  and  herself  was  an  invis- 
ible link,  woven  so  closely  that  nothing  could 
undo  it.  How  changed  all  the  world  was! 
Once  it  lay  free  and  bright  and  open  before  her, 
with  but  one  restriction,  and  that  heij  natural 
obedience  to  her  father  and  loyalty  to  her  home. 
Now,  with  a  giddiness  and  dazzling  in  her  eyes, 
she  felt  how  different  it  all  was.  She  had  no 
longer  any  home,  and  the  world  was  closed  up 
to  her  by  that  figure  of  Rob  Glen.  She  did  not 
know  that  she  objected  to  him,  or  disliked  his 
presence,  but  it  made  everything  different.  And 
chiefly  it  made  her  giddy,  so  that  she  herself  and 
the  whole  universe  seemed  to  be  going  round 
and  round — Rob  Glen.  She  was  not  sure,  even 
— but  all  was  confusion  in  her  mind — that  she 
thought  of  him  now  just  as  she  had  thought  of 
him  in  those  old,  old  times,  when  he  had  sat 
among  the  potatoes  and  made  his  picture;  when 
he  had  seemed  so  clever,  such  a  genius,  such  a 
poet,  making  a  common  bit  of  paper  into  a  land- 
scape, in  which  the  sun  would  shine  and  the 
wind  blow  forever. 

That  side  of  the  subject  was  dim  to  her  now. 
Rob  was  no  longer  an  artist  doing  wonders  be- 
fore her  eyes,  but  a  man  whose  touch  made  her 
shrink,  yet  held  her  fast;  one  whom  she  was 
more  shy  of,  yet  more  bound  to,  than  to  any- 
body else  in  the  world ;  from  whom  she  would 
like  to  steal  a  little  farther  off,  if  she  could  do 
it  unnoticed,  yet  move  a  step  nearer  to,  should 
he  find  her  out.  This  strange  jumble  of  feeling 
seemed  to  be  brought  to  a  climax  by  the  thought 
that  she  was  going  away  to-morrow.  To-night 
— there  was  no  avoiding  the  necessity — she  must 
go  again  and  meet  him,  and  explain  everything 
to  him,  and  part  with  him.  What  might  he 
say,  or  make  her  do  and  say?  She  could  not 
wound  his  feelings  by  refusing,  by  letting  him 
see  that  she  shrank  from  him.  She  felt  that 
she  must  yield  to  him,  not  to  hurt  his  feelings. 
A  mingled  sense  of  sympathy  and  gratitude, 
and  (though  the  word  is  so  inadequate)  polite- 
ness, made  it  seem  terrible  to  Margaret  to  with- 
draw from  her  lover. 

To  betray  to  a  person  who  loves  you  that  his 
gaze,  his  touch,  his  close  vicinity  is  distasteful, 
what  a  dreadful  thing  to  do — what  a  wound  to 
his  feelings,  and  his  pride,  and  his  fondness !  If 
he  would  not  do  it ;  if  he  would  keep  a  little  far- 
ther oft",  and  keep  his  arms  by  his  side  like  other 
people,  how  much  more  pleasant;  but  to  be  so 
unsympathetic,  so  unfeeling,  as  to  show  him  that 
you  did  not  like  what  he  meant  in  such  great 
kindness!  this  was  more  than  Margaret  could 
do.  As  she  sat  back  in  the  carriage  and  was 
carried  along  through  the  gray  landscape,  with  a 
whiff  of  Mrs.  Bellingham's  mille-jleurs  pervading 
the  atmosphere,  and  a  sea  of  crape  all  about  her, 
and  the  voices  of  the  others  flowing  on,  Marga- 
ret, whom  they  thought  so  impassive,  was  turning 
over  this  question,  with  flushes  of  strange  con- 
fusion and  trouble.     What  would  he  say  ?  what 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


would  he  ask  of  her  ?  what  promises  would  she 
have  to  make,  and  pledges  to  give  ?  To  give 
him  up  was  a  thing  that  did  not  enter  into  her 
mind ;  she  could  not  have  done  anything  so 
cruel :  but  she  looked  forward  to  the  next  meet- 
ing with  an  alarm  which  was  very  vivid,  while 
nt  the  same  time  she  was  aware  that  it  was  quite 
inevitable  that  she  must  see  him,  and  that  in  all 
likelihood  she  would  do  what  he  wanted  her  to  do. 

This  pervading  consciousness  confused  Mar- 
garet much  in  respect  to  the  morning's  service, 
and  the  people  who  came  up  to  her  and  pressed 
her  hand,  and  said  things  they  meant  to  be  kind. 
It  was  a  little  chapel,  very  like,  as  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham  said  indignantly,  the  chapels  which  the  dis- 
senters had  in  England  ;  and  to  see  all  the  com- 
mon folk  going  to  the  big  church  with  the  stee- 
ple, to  which  they  were  called  by  all  the  dis- 
cordancy of  loudly  clanging  bells,  while  the  car- 
riages drew  up  before  that  little  non-conforming 
tabernacle,  was  very  offensive  to  all  right-mind- 
ed people. 

"Tilings  must  have  been  dreadfully  misman- 
aged, Aubrey,  at  the  time  when  all  was  settled," 
Mrs.  Bellingham  said,  very  seriously ;  "for  you 
see  for  yourself  all  the  best  people  were  there. 
One  advantage  is  that  it  is  much  pleasanter  sit- 
ting among  a  congregation  that  is  all  ladies  and 
gentlemen ;  but  surely,  surely,  taking  the  most 
liberal  view  of  it,  it  is  more  suitable  that  we 
should  have  the  churches,  and  the  common  peo- 
ple be  dissenters,  as  they  are  in  England  ?  I 
would  not  prevent  them — I  would  let  them  have 
their  way  ;  but  naturally  it  is  not  we  that  should 
give  place  to  them,  but  they  to  us." 

"But,  dearest  Jean,  we  were  all  once — " 

"And  when  you  think  —  Grace,  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  get  in  a  word — that  we  really  can- 
not get  a  very  good  set  of  clergy  because  there  is 
no  money  to  give  them,  while  the  Presbyterians 
have  got  it  all,  though  it  comes  out  of  our  pock- 
ets !  I  have  never  studied  history  as  I  ought  to 
have  done,  for  really  education  was  not  so  much 
attended  to  in  our  days ;  but  I  am  sure  the  Scots 
gentry  must  have  been  very  badly  treated.  For 
that  John  Knox,  you  know,  sprang  of  the  com- 
mon people  himself,  and  they  were  all  he  cared 
about,  and  no  pains  were  taken,  none  at  all,  to 
suit  the  Church  to  the  better  classes.  But  Mar- 
garet has  been  more  seen  to-day ;  and  we  have 
had  more  condolences  and  sympathy  from  our 
own  kind  of  people  at  this  one  service  than  we 
would  have  had  at  the  parish  church  in  twenty 
years." 

These  shakings  of  hands,  however,  and  the 
words  of  sympathy  were  too  much  for  Margaret, 
who  was  not  perhaps  in  the  best  condition  for 
being  inspected  and  condoled  with,  after  all  the 
secret  agitation  of  this  long,  silent  drive,  and  who 
had  to  be  sent  home,  finally,  alone,  while  her  sis- 
ters and  their  attendant  stopped  half-way  to  take 
luncheon  with  Sir  Claude. 

"You  will  send  back  the  carriage  for  us,  Mar- 
garet, since  you  don't  feel  equal  to  staying  ?  Of 
course,  it  is  a  very  different  thing  to  her,  who 
never  was  away  from  him,  to  what  it  is  to  us, 
who  had  not  been  with  him  for  years,"  Mrs.  Bel- 
lingham said,  while  Miss  Leslie  lingered  at  the 
carriage-door,  and  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  leave  her  dearest  Margaret. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go  with  her,  dear  child. 

Don't  you  think  so,  dear  Aubrev  ?     But   then 

7 


Sir  Claude  and  Lady  Jane  are  so  kind ;  and 
then  it  will  be  such  a  trouble  sending  back  the 
carriage.  Darling  Margaret,  are  you  sure,  are 
you  quite  sure  you  don't  mind  going  alone  ?  for 
I  will  come  witli  you  in  a  minute.  I  don't  re- 
ally care  to  stay  at  all,  but  fur  Jean,  who  always 
likes  a  change  ;  and  dear  Sir  Claude  is  so  kind  ; 
and  it  will  be  a  change,  you  know,  for  dear  Au- 
brey— the  chief  people  in  Pile!"  she  added,  anx- 
iously putting  her  nose  into  the  carriage,  "  if  you 
are  quite  sure,  dearest  Margaret,  that  you  don't 
mind." 

Free  of  the  crape,  and  of  that  sense  of  a  mul- 
titude which  belongs  to  a  closely  packed  car- 
riage, Margaret  went  home  very  much  more  tran- 
quilly in  her  corner,  and  cried,  and  was  relieved 
as  the  heavy  old  vehicle  rolled  along  between 
the  well-known  hedge-rows,  and  passed  the  well- 
known  church  upon  its  mound  where  her  old  fa- 
ther lay  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  weary  and  the 
just.  She  gazed  out  wistfully  through  her  tears 
at  the  path  round  the  old  apse  of  the  church 
where  she  had  walked  with  him  so  lately,  and 
close  to  which  he  was  now  laid.  In  these  days 
no  idea  of  floral  decorations  had  visited  Scotch 
grave-yards,  and  the  great  gray  stone-work  of 
the  Leslie  tomb,  rearing  its  seventeenth-century 
skulls  and  crossbones  against  the  old  twisted 
Norman  arches,  was  not  favorable  to  any  loving 
deposit  of  this  kind.  But  a  rose-bush  that  grew 
by  the  side  door  had  thrown  a  long  tendril  round 
the  gray  wall,  which  was  drooping  with  a  single 
half-opened »rose  upon  it  straight  across  those 
melancholy  emblems,  pointing,  as  it  seemed  to 
Margaret,  to  the  very  spot  where  old  Sir  Ludo- 
vic  lay.  This  went  to  her  heart,  poor  child. 
They  were  taking  her  away,  but  the  rose  would 
remain  and  shed  its  leaves  over  the  place,  and 
make  it  sweet ;  and  kind  eyes  would  look  at  it, 
and  kind  people  would  talk  of  old  Sir  Ludovic, 
and  be  sorry  for  his  poor  little  Peggy,  whose  life 
was  so  changed. 

There  is  something  in  the  pang  of  self-pity  in 
a  young  mind  which  is  more  poignant,  and  yet 
more  sweet,  than  any  other  sorrow.  There  is 
nothing  so  ready  to  bring  the  tears  that  give  re- 
lief. They  would  talk  about  her,  all  the  kind 
poor  people ;  not  the  ladies  and  the  gentlemen, 
perhaps,  who  went  to  the  English  chapel,  and  of 
whom  Jean  was  so  fond,  but  a  great  many  peo- 
ple in  the  high  town  and  the  "  laigh  toun  "  whom 
Margaret  knew  intimately,  and  the  family  in 
the  Manse,  Dr.  Burnside  and  his  wife  and  Ran- 
dal. Randal  had  been  kind  too.  How  he  had 
run  for  the  doctor  that  day,  though  it  was  of  no 
use!  and  how  many  things  he  had  done  after, 
not  stopping,  Margaret  thought,  to  talk  to  her, 
but  always  doing  what  was  most  wanted !  Ah  ! 
— this  thought  brought  her  to  the  other  end  of 
the  circle  again  with  a  spring.  It  was  always 
herself,  Margaret  remembered,  that  Rob  had 
thought  of,  always  her  first.  She  began  to  go 
over  all  the  course  of  events  as  the  carriage  rolled 
on,  too  quickly  now,  to  Earl's-hall.  Had  she 
forgotten,  she  asked  herself,  that  time  when  he 
came  to  her  father's  aid  on  the  church-yard  path 
— how  careful  he  had  been  of  the  old  man — and 
how  much  trouble  he  had  taken  to  please  him 
afterward  ?  Thinking  of  her  own  troubles,  she 
had  forgotten  half  that  Rob  had  done.  How 
kind  he  had  been !  and  Sir  Ludovic  had  liked 
him — he  had  got  to  be  fond  of  him ;  surely  he 


96 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


had  been  fond  of  him  !  He  had  allowed  her  to 
be  with  Rob,  drawing,  talking,  as  much  as  she 
pleased.  He  had  never  said  "You  must  give 
up  Rob  Glen."  Perhaps,  indeed,  that  was  what 
her  father  meant.  What  did  it  matter  about 
being  what  people  called  a  gentleman  ?  Sir 
Claude  was  all  that;  but  except  when  he  sent  a 
servant  to  ask  how  Sir  Ludovic  was,  what  had 
lie  ever  done,  though  Grace  said  he  was  so  kind  ? 
The  great  people  had  all  been  the  same.  They 
had  sent  a  servant ;  they  had  sent  their  carriages 
to  the  funeral.  But  Rob  had  held  up  her  fa- 
ther when  he  stumbled,  and  had  come  to  talk  to 
him  and  amuse  him,  and  had  made  a  picture  of 
him  which  was  more  to  Margaret  than  all  the 
National  Gallery.  Oh,  that  was  what  it  was  to 
be  kind !  The  carriage  heaving  horribly  as  it 
turned  into  the  rut  inside  the  gate,  stopped  Mar- 
garet in  the  full  current  of  these  thoughts.  But 
they  were  a  great  support  to  her  in  the  prospect 
that  lay  before  her,  the  farewell  scene  that  she 
knew  she  would  have  to  go  through,  when  he 
would  be  so  sorry,  and  she  would  not  know  what 
to  say. 

The  Leslies,  like  so  many  kind  people,  dined 
earlier  than  usual  on  Sundays.  They  dined  at 
five,  to  the  great  discomfort  of  the  party  who 
had  lunched  with  Sir  Claude,  and  who  arrived 
just  in  time  for  this  second  meal.  Mr.  Aubrey 
Bellingham  thought  it  was  done  in  deference  to 
the  national  desire  to  be  uncomfortable  on  Sim- 
day,  and  submitted  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoul- 
ders ;  but  Mrs.  Bellingham,  having  more  right 
to  express  an  opinion,  did  so  frankly,  and  with 
much  indignation.     She  said  : 

"I  know  it's  Mary's  way  in  Edinburgh;  and 
there  may  be  excuses  where  there  is  a  young 
family,  and  servants  have  to  be  considered.  Of 
course  they  are  not  rich,  and  servants  insist  on 
being  considered  when  they  know  they  have  you 
in  their  power;  but  at  EaiTs-hall,  and  when  ice 
are  here!  I  think  it  is  very  unnecessary.  Last 
Sunday  we  were  not  thinking  of  dinner,  and  I 
am  sure  I  cannot  tell  you  when  we  had  it ;  but 
just  when  people  are  recovering  their  spirits, 
and  when  a  cheerful  meal  is  your  best  restora- 
tive !  It  may  be  very  good  of  Mary  to  consider 
her  servants,  but  I  must  say  she  might  just  as 
well,  for  once  in  a  way,  have  considered  you  and 
me." 

"But,  dearest  Jean!  dear  Mary  is  the  most 
unselfish !  She  does  not  mind  any  inconven- 
ience— " 

"Oh,  inconvenience!  don't  speak  to  me — she 
likes  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Jean,  indignant.  "She  is 
just  the  kind  of  woman  that  relishes  a  tea-dinner, 
and  all  that  sort  of  tiling ;  and  if  she  can  make 
out  that  she  saves  sixpence,  what  a  thing  that 
is  !  And  Ludovic  just  lets  her  do  what  she  likes. 
She  is  getting  him  into  all  her  huggermugger 
ways.  If  a  woman  has  not  more  self-respect, 
she  ought,  at  least,  to  have  some  respect  for  her 
husband.  But  everything  is  made  to  give  in  to 
the  children  and  the  servants,  in  that  house.  I 
could  have  put  up  with  it,  not  that  I  ever  like  it, 
in  Edinburgh,  for  there  one  knows  what  one  has 
to  expect.  But  here,  where  Bell  and  John  were 
so  used  to  my  father — and  when  ice  are  in  the 
house,  and  without  even  asking  my  opinion,  and 
the  excellent  luncheon  we  have  just  had !  she 
might  have  thought  of  Aubrey,  who  is  not  accus- 
tomed to  any  nonsense  of  consideration  for  ser- 


vants ;  but  I  always  said,  though  she  is  a  good 
enough  wife  to  Ludovic,  that  she  was  a  woman 
of  no  perception,"  Mrs.  Bellingham  said. 

After  this  little  storm,  the  untimely  dinner 
was  marred  by  some  sulkiness  on  Jean's  part,  as 
was  perhaps  natural.  And  though  Aubrey  made 
himself  very  agreeable,  with  the  most  noble  and 
Christian  forgiveness  of  injuries,  devoting  him- 
self to  little  Effie,  whom  he  regaled  with  histo- 
riettes  of  a  less  piquant  description  than  those 
of  his  debut,  yet  there  was  a  general  irritability 
about  the  simple  meal  which,  it  must  be  allowed, 
often  attends  that  well-meant  expedient  for  the 
keeping  of  Sunday.  The  company  dispersed 
early,  flocking  off  to  their  rooms,  where  Mrs. 
Bellingham,  with  her  feet  up,  instructed  her 
maid  as  to  her  packing,  and  once  more  tinned 
over  the  packet  of  lace  which  had  fallen  to  her 
share.  Margaret,  when  she  had  seen  the  rest 
of  the  party  go  away,  fled  too,  to  escape  another 
interview  with  her  brother,  who  looked,  she 
thought,  as  if  meditating  a  renewal  of  his  remon- 
strances, and,  having  watched  her  opportunity, 
stole  softly  down-stairs.  Even  Bell  was  still 
busy  after  the  dinner.  Her  chair  stood  in  the 
court  outside  the  door,  but  she  had  not  yet  come 
out  to  enjoy  her  favorite  seat.  And  Bell's  heart 
was  so  heavy  that  her  work  went  but  slowly. 
She  had  no  thought  of  anything  but  Miss  Mar- 
garet, who  to-morrow  was  to  be  taken  away. 

Margaret  stole  out  like  one  who  had  learned 
that  she  was  guilty.  Never  before  had  she 
emerged  so  stealthily  from  the  shadow  of  the  old 
house.  She  did  not  go  the  usual  way,  to  run  the 
risk  of  being  seen,  but  crept  round  by  the  garden- 
wall,  as  she  had  clone  sometimes  when  returning, 
when  Rob  was  with  her.  There  was  a  feeble  at- 
tempt at  a  sunset,  though  the  sun  had  not  shone 
all  day,  and  consecpiently  had  no  right  to  his  usu- 
al pomps,  but  in  the  west  there  was  a  redness 
breaking  through  the  gray,  which  brightened  the 
face  of  the  country,  and  changed  the  character 
of  the  landscape.  Under  the  trees  it  fell  like 
lamps  of  rich  gold,  escaping  here  and  there 
through  broken  openings  in  the  clouds,  and 
warming  the  wood  with  gleams  of  color  which 
had  looked  so  dark  and  wind-scathed  in  the  morn- 
ing. Margaret  went  softly,  threading  through 
the  colonnades  of  the  great  fir  trunks,  and  sat 
down  on  the  little  mossy  knoll  under  the  silver- 
fir.  She  placed  herself  so  that  she  could  not  be 
seen  from  the  house,  but  yet  could  spy  through 
the  branches  the  approach  of  any  danger  from 
that  side. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  first  at  the 
place  of  meeting,  and  her  heart  beat  as  she  sat 
and  waited.  She,  who  had  shrunk  from  the 
prospect  of  this  meeting,  she  became  alarmed 
now  lest  he  should  not  come,  and  longed  for  him 
with  a  kind  of  sick  anxiety.  Oh  that  he  would 
come,  that  she  might  get  it  over !  She  did  not 
know  what  it  was  to  be,  but  instinctively  felt  that 
there  must  be  something  painful  in  this  last  meet- 
ing. The  last !  She  would  not  be  sorry  to  have 
met,  perhaps,  when  she  was  away  and  had  no 
longer  any  chance  of  seeing  him.  She  would 
understand  better  what  he  meant,  and  what  she 
herself  meant ;  and  there  is  something  which 
subdues  the  pride  in  thus  waiting  for  one  who 
does  not  come.  She  did  not  seem  so  sure  that 
it  was  lie  who  cared,  that  it  was  he  only  who 
would  break  his  heart,  as  she  sat  there  alone; 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


97 


and  she  had  almost  lost  herself  in  fancies  more 
bitter  than  any  she  had  yet  known — in  dreamy 
realization  of  her  loneliness  and  a  sense  that  no 
one,  perhaps,  would  care  much  when  she  went 
away.  Who  did  care  ?  Not  Ludovic,  who  wish- 
ed her  to  do  well,  but  would  not  have  suffered 
much  had  Margaret  died  with  her  father ;  nor 
his  wife,  who  was  very  kind,  but  had  so  many 
girls  of  her  own  ;  nor  Effie,  though  she  would 
cry  and  think  she  was  sorry.  Nobody  would 
care ;  and  Jean  and  Grace  would  often  find  her 
a  trouble ;  and  nobody  in  the  world  belonged  to 
Margaret,  cared  for  her  above  everything  else, 
was  happy  when  she  was  happy,  and  grieved 
when  she  was  sorry  ; — nobody — except,  perhaps, 
him  alone. 

"Margaret!"  A  low  eager  voice  that  seemed 
the  very  essence  of  subdued  delight,  trembling 
with  satisfaction  and  happiness,  and  he  suddenly 
made  a  spring  to  her  side  from  under  the  trees, 
through  which  he  had  been  threading  his  way  to 
the  place  of  meeting.  He  threw  himself  on  his 
knees  by  her,  and  seized  and  kissed  her  hands  a 
hundred  times.  "  You  here  before  me !  waiting 
for  me  !  To  think  I  should  have  lost  a  moment 
of  the  little  time  I  may  have  you  !  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself;  but  I  thought  it  was  too  early  for 
you,  even  now." 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  been  waiting  long,"  she  said. 
"It  was  because  we  dined  so  early;  and  then 
they  were  all — tired." 

"Except  my  Margaret.  God  bless  my  Mar- 
garet, that  came  out  and  took  the  trouble  to  wait 
for  me !  How  often  I  have  sat  here  and  watch- 
ed for  the  sweep  of  your  dress  at  the  corner  of 
the  house,  for  the  least  sign  of  you !  And  to 
think  that  you  should  have  been  first  to-night, 
and  waiting — " 

"Why  should  not  I  wait,"  she  said,  "as  well 
as  you?     And  to-morrow  I  am  going  away." 

"  To-morrow !"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  despair. 
"How  am  I  to  endure  it?  how  am  I  to  go  on 
without  you  ?  I  am  afraid  to  think  of  it,  my 
darling.  Margaret!  Margaret!  what  are  you 
going  to  say  to  me  to  give  me  strength  to  get 
through  to-morrow,  and  all  the  days  after  it,  till 
we  meet  again  ?" 

Now  it  has  come!  said  Margaret  to  herself; 
and  she  felt  with  astonishment  that  the  emergen- 
cy seemed  to  give  her  possession  of  her  faculties. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  steadily,  "  what 
you  want  me  to  do  or  say.  I  shall  be  very  sorry 
to  go  away  and  to — part  from  you.  But  what 
can  I  do?  My  sisters  have  the  right  to  do  what 
they  think  proper  with  me ;  and  I  think  I  ought, 
too,  to  go  and  see  my  own  house.  I  would  like 
to  take  Bell  or  somebody,  but  they  will  not  let 
me.  And  now  that  Ludovic  is  here  and  his  fam- 
ily, it  is  natural  that  I  should  go  away." 

"  Yes ;  but  first  say  something  to  comfort  me, 
Margaret.  I  did  not  suppose  you  could  stay  here 
forever:  but  tell  me  you  love  me,  and  will  be 
faithful  to  me.  Tell  me  when  I  may  come  after 
you  ?" 

"  Come  after  me  ?"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  cer- 
tain dismay. 

"Did  you  not  think  I  would  come  after  you ? 
Did  you  think  I  could  stay  in  one  country  while 
you  were  in  another — I,  who  have  had  the  hap- 
piness of  seeing  you  every  day  ?  But  it  is  bet- 
ter this  should  end,  though  it  is  like  to  break 
my  heart,  for  we  should  have  lost  time,  and  been 


content  just  with  seeing  each  other ;  and  now, 
Margaret,  my  darling,  we  must  settle  something. 
Tell  me  what  I  may  do?  To  wait  till  you  are 
of  age  is  a  lifetime.  If  I  come  to  England  af- 
ter you  in  about  three  months,  when  you  are  in 
your  own  house,  will  you  receive  me  and  tell 
your  sisters  what  I  am  to  you  ?  Margaret !  you 
are  not  frightened,  darling?  You  did  not  think 
I  would  let  my  love  go  away  and  carry  my  heart 
with  her  without  settling  something  ?  You  could 
not  have  been  so  cruel!" 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  cruel,"  she  said;  "but 
oh !  wouldn't  it  do  to  wait — to  wait  a  little?  It 
is  only  three  years  ;  I  am  very  near  eighteen.  I 
shall  be  eighteen  in  November ;  and  three  years 
go  so  quickly.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like 
that  ?  I  am  not  unkind.  It  is  only  that  I  think ; 
it  is  only  that — oh !  I  am  sure  that  would  be  the 
best ! " 

"Three  years!"  he  said;  "you  might  as  well 
bid  me  wait  thirty  years.  How  can  I  be  sure 
you  will  not  forget  me  long  before  three  years 
are  out?  What !  live  without  knowing  anything 
of  you — without  seeing  you,  for  three  centuries — 
it  would  be  all  the  same."  Tell  me  to  go  out 
into  St.  Andrew's  Bay  in  a  storm,  and  be  erst 
away  on  the  rocks — tell  me  to  drown  myself  in 
the  Eden — as  you  please,  Margaret !  I  think  it  is 
in  me  to  do  it  if  you  bid  me ;  but  wait  for  three 
years  and  never  see  you — never  know  -what  you 
are  thinking,  never  hear  the  sound  of  your  voice? 
I  had  rather  go  and  hang  myself  at  once!"  cried 
Rob.  He  was  walking  up  and  down  under  the 
shadow  of  the  trees.  He  was  very  much  ex- 
cited. After  coming  so  far,  after  holding  her  in 
his  lyind,  as  he  thought,  was  he  going  to  lose  her 
at  the  last  ? 

"I  did  not  mean  that" — she  stood  leaning 
against  the  fir,  very  much  troubled — "  what  can 
I  do  ?     Oh,  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"You  must  not  ask  me  to  be  content  without 
you,"  he  said,  "for  I  cannot — I  cannot.  It  is 
not  possible  for  me  to  give  you  up  and  live 
without  you  now.  If  you  had  sent  me  away  at 
the  very  first,  perhaps —  But  after  all  that  has 
passed,  Margaret,  after  feeling  that  you  were 
mine,  to  ask  me  to  go  away  and  give  you  up — 
now!" 

"I  did  not  say  give  me  up ;  I  said — " 

"You  said  three  years,  darling — three  life- 
times ;  you  could  not  mean  anything  so  dread- 
ful !  You  would  not  kill  me,  would  you  ?  It  is 
like  taking  my  heart  out  of  my  breast.  What 
good  would  there  be  in  the  world  for  me  ?  What 
could  I  do?  What  would  I  be  fit  for?  Mar- 
garet, Margaret!  you  could  not  have  the  heart 
to  treat  me  so!" 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  said,  trembling. 
"Ludovic  has  found  out  about  you,  and  he 
asked  me  to  give  you  up.  I  did  not  mean  to 
tell  you,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  He  says  they 
will  never,  never  consent.  And  what  am  /  to 
do?  How  can  I  fight  with  them?  I  said  I 
would  not  give  you  up.  I  said  it  would  break 
your  heart." 

"And  so  it  would,  my  darling!"  he  cried, 
coming  to  her  side,  putting  his  arm  round  her ; 
"and,  oh,  my  Margaret,  yours  too!" 

Margaret  made  no  reply  to  this.  She  with- 
drew the  least  little  step — but  how  could  she 
hurt  his  feelings? 

"  That  was  why  I  said  three  years,"  she  said ; 


98 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


''three  years  is  not  so  very  long.  Poor  Jeanie 
in  the  house,  did  you  ever  see  Jeanie  ?  She  is — 
very  fond  of  some  one ;  and  she  has  not  heard 
of  him  at  all  or  seen  him,  for  two  years.  It 
would  pass  very  fast.  You  would  become  a 
great  painter — and  then ;  but  Jeanie  does  not 
know  if  she  will  ever  see  him  again ;  and  his 
name  is  Rob,  too,  like  you." 

"  What  has  Jeanie  to  do  with  it?"  he  cried, 
with  a  look  of  dismay.  Then  he  caught  her 
arm  and  drew  her  away.  "There  is  some  one 
coming  from  the  house ;  let  us  not  wait  here, 
but  come  down  the  other  side  of  the  wood.  I 
must  not  be  interrupted  now.  I  have  a  great 
deal  more  to  say  to  you,  Margaret,  my  Marga- 
ret, this  last  night  before  we  part." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Rob  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  but  it  was 
chiefly  repetition  of  what  he  had  said  before. 
He  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  they  wandered 
down  by  the  edge  of  the  wood  and  into  the 
fields.  That  last  little  accidental  outbreak  of 
sunshine  was  over,  and  all  once  more  was  gray- 
ness  and  monotones.  There  was  nobody  about; 
the  evening  was  not  tempting  enough  to  bring 
out  walkers.  In  the  kirktown  people  were  out 
"about  the  doors,"  sitting  on  the  kirk  steps, 
keeping  up  a  confused  little  hum  of  conversation, 
quieter  than  usual  as  suited  the  Sabbath  night ; 
and  the  people  who  had  gardens  strolled  about 
them  in  domestic  stillness,  and  commented  upon 
the  coming  apples;  but  it  was  not  the  fashion 
in  Stratheden  to  take  walks  on  Sunday  evening. 
The  fields  were  very  silent  and  still ;  and  so 
absorbed  were  the  two  in  their  conversation  that 
they  wandered  far  out  of  the  woods  of  EaiTs- 
hall,  and  were  skirting  the  fields  about  the  farm 
before  they  were  aware.  Rob's  plan  was  to  go 
to  London,  to  make  what  progress  he  could  with 
his  drawing,  to  study  and  work,  and  achieve 
success;  the  last  went  without  saying.  Mar- 
garet was  as  certain  of  it  as  that  the  sun  would 
rise  to-morrow.  But  she  was  not  equally  cer- 
tain of  the  other  part  of  the  programme,  which 
was  that  he  should  go  to  the  Grange — her  house 
where  she  was  to  live — and  be  produced  there 
as  her  betrothed  husband,  and  introduced  to  her 
sisters. 

This  prospect  alarmed  her  more  than  she  could 
say.  She  did  not  want  him  to  come  to  the  Grange. 
She  did  not  know  what  to  say  about  writing  to 
him.  The  idea  brought  a  hot  blush  to  her  face. 
Margaret  was  not  quite  sure  that  she  could  write 
a  letter  that  she  would  like  Rob  Glen  to  see.  He 
was  very  clever,  and  she  did  not  think  she  could 
write  a  very  pretty  letter.  In  short,  she  was  un- 
practical and  unmanageable  to  the  last  degree, 
and  Rob  had  some  excuse  for  being  impatient. 
She  had  no  idea  what  could  be  done,  except  that 
she  might  perhaps  come  to  Earl's-hall  and  see 
him  there,  and  that  three  years  was  not  so  very 
long.  He  lost  himself  in  arguments,  in  eloquent 
appeals  to  her;  and  she  had  nothing  very  elo- 
quent to  say  in  return.  After  a  while  she  was 
silenced,  and  made  very  little  answer  at  all,  but 
walked  along  by  his  side  demurely,  with  her  thick 
gauze  veil  drooping  over  her  face,  and  heard  ail 
he  had  to  say,  saying  yes  now  and  then,  and 


sometimes  no.  Her  position  was  very  simple; 
and  though  he  proved  to  her  that  it  was  unten- 
able by  a  hundred  arguments,  and  showed  her 
that  some  other  plan  was  necessary,  he  did  not 
drive  Margaret  out  of  it. 

What  could  she  do?  she  asked,  wringing  her 
hands.  Ludovic  was  against  them,  and  Jean 
would  be  much  more  against  them.  She  dared 
not  let  Jean  know.  Even  her  brother  himself 
had  said  that  Jean  must  not  know.  And,  to  tell 
the  truth,  Rob  himself  was  of  the  opinion  that 
it  would  be  better  to  keep  this  secret  from  Mrs. 
Bellingham ;  but  yet  he  thought  he  might  at 
least  be  allowed  to  visit  at  the  Grange,  as  an 
old  friend,  if  nothing  more.  They  got  through  a 
series  of  by-ways  into  the  field  path,  where  their 
first  meeting  had  been,  and  Rob  was  trying,  for 
the  hundredth  time,  to  obtain  some  promise  of 
intercourse  from  Margaret,  when  suddenly  some 
one  coming  behind  them  laid  a  hand  upon  a  shoul- 
der of  each.  Rob  gave  a  violent  start  and  turned 
round,  while  Margaret,  with  a  little  cry,  shrank 
back  into  the  shadow  of  the  hedge-row. 

"My  certy!"  said  the  intruder;  "this  is  a 
fine  occupation,  Rob,  my  man,  for  a  Sabbath 
nicht ! "  And  then  she,  too,  gave  a  cry  of  surprise, 
more  pretended  than  real,  but  in  which  there  was 
a  little  genuine  fright.  "  Eh,  bless  me,  it's  Miss 
Margret,  and  so  far  from  hame!"  she  cried. 

"Mother!  what  are  you  doing  here?"  cried 
Rob.  But  as  for  Margaret  she  was  relieved.  She 
had  thought  nothing  less  for  the  moment  than 
that  Jean  was  upon  her,  or,  at  the  very  least, 
Bell  coming  out  to  seek  and  bring  her  back. 
Mrs.  Glen  was  not  a  person  of  whom  she  stood 
in  any  fear,  and  she  would  not  tell  or  interfere  to 
let  Jean  know,  for  Rob's  sake.  So  that  Marga- 
ret turned  round  from  the  hedge-row  with  a  re- 
lieved soul,  and  said, 

"Oh,  is  it  you,  Mrs.  Glen ?"  with  a  new  sense 
of  ease  in  her  tone. 

"Deed  and  it  is  just  me,  my  bonnie  young 
lady.  I  hear  you  are  going  away,  Miss  Margret, 
and  many  a  sore  heart  you  will  leave  in  the  coun- 
try-side. You're  so  near  the  farm,  you  must 
come  in  and  I  will  make  you  a  cup  of  tea  in  a 
moment.  It's  real  gray  and  dull,  and  there's  a 
feel  in  the  air  like  rain.  Come  your  ways  to 
the  farm,  Miss  Margret,  my  bonnie  dear;  and 
after  that  Rob  will  take  you  home." 

Margaret  made  no  resistance  to  this  proposal. 
She  had  been  walking  for  some  time,  and  she 
was  tired,  and  even  the  idea  of  the  tea  was  wel- 
come. She  went  in  after  Mrs.  Glen  with  some 
misgivings  as  to  the  length  of  her  absence,  but  a 
sense  of  relief  on  that  point  too ;  for  it  had  al- 
ways been  a  good  excuse  to  Bell,  and  even  to  her 
father,  that  she  had  accepted  the  civility  of  one 
of  their  humbler  neighbors.  "It  pleases  them  ; 
and  so  long  as  they  are  decent  folk  they  will  nev- 
er but  be  awfu'  keen  to  take  care  of  Miss  Mar- 
gret: and  she  knows  none  but  decent  folk,"  Bell 
had  said.  The  cup  of  tea  in  the  farm -parlor 
would  be  as  good  a  reason  for  Margaret's  absence 
as  Sir  Claude's  luncheon-table  was  for  her  sis- 
ters'. To  be  sure,  in  former  days  there  had  been 
no  son  at  Mrs.  Glen's  to  make  such  visits  dan- 
gerous. She  went  in  with  a  sense  of  unexpected 
relief  and  sat  down,  very  glad  to  find  herself  at 
rest  in  the  parlor,  where  a  little  fire  was  burning. 
To  be  sure,  Rob  would  walk  home  with  her  and 
renew  his   entreaties ;    but  he   could   not,  she 


THE  PRIMKOSE  PATH. 


99 


thought,  continue  them  in  his  mother's  presence, 
and  the  relief  was  great. 

"Mony  a  time  have  you  come  in  here  to  get 
your  tea,  Miss  Margrct.  I've  seen  Kob  come 
ben  carrying  ye  in  his  arms.  I  mind  one  time 
you  were  greeting  for  tiredness,  a  poor  wee  mis- 
sie,  and  your  shoe  lost  in  the  burn  ;  that  lad  was 
aye  your  slave,  Miss  Margrct,  from  the  time  you 
were  no  bigger  than  the  table. " 

"Oh,  I  remember,"  said  Margaret;  "I 
thought  Bell  would  scold  me,  and  I  did  not 
know  how  I  was  to  go  home  without  my  shoe." 

"You  went  home  in  that  lad's  arms,  my  bon- 
nie  dear,  for  all  he  stands  there  so  blate,  looking 
at  ye  as  if  you  were  an  angel ;  he  wasna  aye  sae 
blate.  You  went  home  in  his  arms,  and  gave 
him  a  good  kiss,  and  thought  no  shame.  But 
you  were  only  six  then,  and  now  you're  eighteen. 
Oh  ay,  my  dear,  I  can  tell  your  age  to  a  day. 
You  were  born  the  same  week  as  my  youngest 
that  died,  a  cauld  November,  and  that  sent  your 
bonnie  young  mother  to  her  grave.  It  was  an 
awfu'  draughty  house,  and  no  a  place  for  a  deli- 
cate young  woman,  that  auld  house  at  EaiTs- 
hall.  Pine,  I  mind ;  and  Rob  there  he's  five  years 
older.  Prom  the  time  you  could  toddle  he  aye 
thought  you  the  chief  wonder  o'  the  world." 

"Mother,  you  that  know  so  much  you  had 
better  know  all,"  said  Rob.  "I  think  her  the 
chief  wonder  of  the  world  still." 

"You  need  not  tell  me  that,  my  bonnie  man ; 
as  if  I  could  not  see  it  in  your  een  !"  Margaret 
stirred  uneasily  while  this  conversation  went  on 
over  her  head.  She  had  never  thought  of  hav- 
ing this  engagement  told  to  anybody,  of  being 
talked  about  to  anybody.  She  got  up  with  a  lit- 
tle gasp,  feeling  as  if  there  was  not  air  enough 
to  breathe.  If  they  would  not  surround  her  so, 
close  her  up,  all  these  people  ;  oh,  if  they  would 
only  let  her  alone !  She  tried  to  turn  away  to 
escape  before  Rob  should  have  said  any  more — 
but,  before  she  clearly  understood  what  was  pass- 
ing, found  herself  suddenlv  in  the  arms  of  Mrs. 
Glen. 

"  Oh,  my  pretty  miss !  my  bonnie  young  lady ! 
is  this  all  true  that  I  hear  ?"  Rob's  mother  cried, 
with  effusive  surprise  and  delight.  "Did  I  ever 
think,  when  I  rose  out  of  my  bed  this  morning, 
that  I  was  to  hear  such  wonderful  news  afore  the 
night?  Eh,  Miss  Margret,  my  dear,  I  wish  ye 
much  joy,  and  I  think  ye'll  have  it,  for  he's  a 
good  lad  ;  and  you,  ye  smiling  loon,  I  need  not 
wish  you  joy,  for  you're  just  leaping  out  of  your- 
self with  happiness  and  content." 

"And  I  think  I  have  good  reason,"  cried  Rob, 
coming  up  in  his  turn  and  receiving  her  out  of 
his  mother's  embrace.  Oh,  how  horribly  out  of 
place  Margaret  felt  between  them !  Never  in 
her  life  had  she  felt  the  dignity  of  being  Marga- 
ret Leslie,  old  Sir  Ludovic's  daughter,  as  she  did 
at  that  moment.  Her  cheeks  burned  crimson ; 
she  shrank  into  herself,  to  escape  from  the  em- 
bracing arms.  What  had  she  to  do  here  ?  How 
had  she  strayed  so  far  from  home?  It  was  all 
she  could  do  not  to  break  forth  into  passionate 
tears  of  disgust  and  repugnance.  Oh,  Margaret 
thought,  if  she  could  but  get  away !  if  she  could 
but  run  home  all  the  way  and  never  stop !  if  she 
could  but  beg  Jean  to  leave  Earl's-hall  instantly 
that  very  night!  But  she  could  not  do  any  of 
these  things.  She  had  to  stand  still,  with  eyes 
cast  down  and   crimson   cheeks,  hearing  them 


talk  of  her.  It  was  to  them  she  seemed  to  be- 
long now  ;  and  how  could  she  get  away  ? 

"  Now  give  us  your  advice,  mother,"  said  Rob, 
"we  cannot  tell  what  to  do.  The  Leslies  are 
prejudiced,  as  may  easily  be  supposed,  especially 
the  old  ladies  (oh  that  Jean  and  Grace  had  but 
heard  themselves  -called  old  ladies !),  and  Mar- 
garet wants  me  to  wait  the  three  years  till  she 
comes  of  age.  She  wants  me  to  trust  to  chances 
of  seeing  her  and  hearing  of  her — not  even  to 
have  any  regular  correspondence.  I  would  cut 
off  my  right  hand  to  please  her,  but  how  am  I 
to  live  without  seeing  her,  mother?  "\Ve  had 
been  talking  and  consulting,  and  wandering  on, 
a  little  farther  and  a  little  farther,  till  we  did  not 
know  where  we  were  going.  But  now  that  we 
are  here,  give  us  your  advice.  Will  you  be  for 
me,  I  wonder,  or  on  Margaret's  side?" 

He  had  called  her  Margaret  often  before,  and 
she  was  quite  used  to  it ;  why  did  it  suddenly 
become  so  offensive  and  insupportable  now  ? 

"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Glen,  "there  is  a  great 
deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides."  Mrs.  Glen  was 
very  much  excited,  her  eyes  gleaming,  her  heart 
beating.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  the  fate 
of  these  two  young  people  in  her  hands,  and 
might  now  clinch  the  matter  and  establish  her 
son's  good-fortune  if  Providence  would  but  in- 
spire her  with  the  right  thing  to  say.  "There 
is  this  for  our  bonnie  Miss  Margret,  that  she 
would  be  all  her  lane  to  bear  the  opposition  o' 
thae  ladies,  and  hard  it  would  be  for  a  delicate 
young  thing  no  used  to  struggle  for  herself;  and 
there's  that  for  you,  Rob,  that  nae  doubt  it  would 
be  a  terrible  trial  to  worship  the  ground  she 
treads  on  as  you  do,  and  never  to  see  her  for 
three  lang  years.  Now  let  me  think  a  moment, 
bairns,  while  this  dear  lassie  takes  her  cup  of 
tea." 

Margaret  could  not  refuse  the  cup  of  tea. 
How  could  she  assert  herself  and  withdraw  from 
them,  and  let  them  know  that  she  was  not  to  be 
taken  possession  of  and  called  a  dear  lassie  by 
Mrs.  Glen  ?  Her  heart  was  in  revolt ;  but  she 
was  far  too  shy,  far  too  polite  to  make  a  visible 
resistance.  She  drew  back  into  the  room  as  far 
as  she  could  out  of  the  fitful  gleams  of  the  fire- 
light, and  she  shrank  from  Rob's  arm,  which  was 
on  the  back  of  her  chair ;  but  still  she  took  the 
tea  and  sat  still,  bearing  with  all  they  said  and 
did.  It  was  the  last  time ;  but  oh,  what  trouble 
she  had  got  into  without  meaning  it !  Sudden- 
ly it  had  come  to  be  salvation  and  deliverance  to 
Margaret  that  she  was  going  away. 

"  Now,  bairns,"  said  Mrs.  Glen,  "  listen  to  me. 
I  think  I  have  found  what  you  want.  The  grand 
thing  is  that  you  should  be  faithful  to  each  other, 
and  mind  upon  each  other.  It's  no  being  parted 
that  does  harm.  Three  years  will  flee  away  like 
three  days,  and  yon  will  be  young,  young,  ower 
young  to  be  married  at  the  end ;  and  you  would 
do  more  than  that,  Rob  Glen,  for  your  bonnie 
Margaret ;  weel  I  ken  that.  So  here  is  just  what 
you  must  do.  You  must  give  each  other  a  bit 
writing,  saying  that  ye'll  marry  at  the  end  of 
three  years  —  you  to  her,  Rob,  and  her  to  you. 
And  then  you  will  be  out  of  all  doubt,  and  troth- 
plight,  the  one  to  the  other,  before  God  and  man." 

"  M other !"  cried  Rob,  starting  up  from  where 
he  had  been  bending  over  Margaret,  with  a  wild 
glow  of  mingled  rage,  terror,  and  hope  in  his 
eves.     The  suggestion  gave  him  a  shock.     He 


100 


THE  PRIMROSE  RATH. 


did  not  know  anything  about  the  law  on  that 
point,  nor  whether  there  was  more  validity  in 
such  a  promise  than  in  any  other  love-pledge. 
But  he  was  struck  with  sudden  alarm  at  the  idea 
of  doing  something  which  might  afterward  be 
brought  against  him,  and  a  certain  generosity 
and  honor  not  extinguished  in  his  mind  made 
him  realize  Margaret's  helpless  condition  be- 
tween his  mother  and  himself,  and  her  ignorance 
and  her  youth  ;  while  at  the  same  time,  to  se- 
cure her,  to  make  certain  of  her,  gave  him  a  tug 
of  temptation,  a  wild  sensation  of  delight.  "No, 
no,"  he  cried,  hoarsely,  "I  could  not  make  her 
do  it;"  then  paused,  and  lo'oked  at  her  with  the 
eager  wildness  of  passion  in  his  eyes. 

But  Margaret  was  perfectly  calm.  No  pas- 
sion was  woke  in  her — scarcely  any  understand- 
ing of  what  this  meant.  A  bit  writing?  Oh 
yes,  what  would  that  matter,  so  long  as  she  could 
get  away  ? 

"It  is  getting  dark,"  she  said;  "they  will 
not  know  where  I  am ;  they  will  be  wondering. 
Will  I  do  it  now,  whatever  you  want  me  to  do, 
and  go  home?" 

" Margaret,  my  love!"  he  cried,  "I  thought 
you  were  frightened  ;  I  thought  you  were  shrink- 
ing from  me ;  and  here  is  your  sweet  consent 
more  ready  than  even  mine!" 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  that,"  she  said,  a  little  alarmed 
by  the  praise  and  by  the  demonstrations  that  ac- 
companied it.  "  But  it  is  getting  dark,  and  it 
is  late ;  and  oh,  I  am  so  anxious  to  get  home." 

Rob  wrung  his  hands.  "She  doesn't  under- 
stand what  we  mean,  mother ;  I  can't  take  ad- 
vantage of  her.  She  thinks  of  nothing  but  to 
get  home." 

"You  gomerel!"  said  his  mother,  between  her 
teeth ;  and  then  she  turned  a  smiling  face  upon 
Margaret.  "Just  that,  my  bonnie  miss,"  she 
said ;  "a  woman's  heart's  aye  ready  to  save  sor- 
row to  them  that's  fond  of  her.  It's  time  you 
were  home,  my  sweet  lady.  Just  you  write  it 
down  to  make  him  easy  in  his  mind,  and  then 
he  will  take  you  back  to  Earl's-hall." 

"Must  I  write  it  myself?"  Margaret  said; 
and  it  came  across  her  with  a  wave  of  blushing 
that  she  did  not  write  at  all  nicely — not  so  well 
as  she  ought.  "And  what  am  I  to  say  ?  I  don't 
know  what  to  say."  Then  she  gave  another 
glance  at  the  window,  which  showed  the  night 
drawing  near,  the  darkness  increasing  every 
moment,  with  that  noiseless,  breathless  pleasure 
■which  the  night  seems  to  take  in  getting  dark 
when  we  are  far  from  home.  She  got  up  with 
a  sudden,  hasty  impulse.  "Oh,  if  you  please, 
Mrs.  Glen,  if  you  will  be  as  quick  as  ever  you 
can  !  for  I  must  run  all  the  way." 

"That  will  I,  my  darlin'  lady,"  said  the  de- 
lighted mother.  It  was  she  who  had  the  whole 
doing  of  it,  and  the  pride  of  having  suggested  it. 
Rob  stood  by,  quite  pale,  his  eyes  blazing  with 
excitement,  his  mind  half  paralyzed  with  trou- 
ble and  terror,  hope  to  have,  reluctance  to  take, 
fear  of  something  unmanly,  something  dishon- 
orable, intensified  by  the  eagerness  of  expecta- 
tion, with  which  he  looked  for  what  was  to  come. 
He  stood  "like  a  stock  stane,"  his  mother  said 
afterward,  his  lips  parted,  his  eyes  staring,  in  her 
way  as  she  rushed  to  the  desk  at  the  other  side 
of  the  room  to  find  what  was  wanted.  "You 
eedeeot !"  she  said,  as  she  pushed  him  aside,  in 
an  angry  undertone.    Had  he  not  the  sense  even 


to  help  in  what  was  all  for  his  own  advantage  ? 
Margaret  pulled  off  her  black  glove  and  took  the 
pen  in  her  hand.  She  knew  she  would  write  it 
very  badly,  very  unevenly — not  even  in  a  straight 
line  ;  but  if  she  had  to  do  it  before  she  could  run 
home,  it  was  better  to  get  it  over. 

"Oh,  but  I  never  wrote  anything  before,"  she 
said  ;   "Mrs.  Glen,  what  must  I  say ?" 

"  Nor  me.  I  never  wrote  the  like  of  that  be- 
fore," cried  Mrs.  Glen  ;  "and  there's  Rob  even — 
too  happy  to  help  us."  She  had  meant  to  use 
another  word  to  describe  his  spasm  of  irresolu- 
tion and  apprehension,  but  remembered  in  time 
that  he  must  not  be  contemned  in  Margaret's 
eyes.  "  It  will  be  just  this,  my  bonnie  dear :  '1, 
Margaret  Leslie,  give  my  word  before  God  and 
man,  to  marry  Robert  Glen  as  soon  as  I  come 
of  age.     So  help  me  God.     Amen.'" 

"Don't  put  that,"  cried  Rob,  making  a  hasty 
step  toward  her.  "  Don't  let  her  put  that."  But 
then  he  turned  away  in  such  passion  and  trans- 
port of  shame,  satisfaction,  horror,  and  disgust 
as  no  words  could  tell,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands. 

"Not  that  last,"  said  Margaret,  stumbling,  in 
her  eagerness,  over  the  words,  and  glad  to  leave 
out  whatever  she  could.  "  Oh,  it  is  very  badly- 
written.  I  never  could  write  well.  Mrs.  Glen, 
will  that  do  ?" 

"And  now  your  bonnie  name  here,"  said  the 
originator  of  the  scheme,  scarcely  able  to  restrain 
her  triumph.  And  as  Margaret,  with  a  trem- 
bling hand,  crossed  the  last  t,  and  put  a  blot  for 
a  dot  over  the  i,  in  her  distracted  signature,  she 
received  a  resounding  kiss  upon  her  cheek  which 
was  as  the  report  of  a  pistol  to  her.  She  gave 
a  little  cry  of  terror,  and  threw  down  the  pen, 
and  turned  away.  "Oh,  good-bye!"  she  cried, 
"good-bye.  I  must  not"  stay  another  moment. 
I  must  run  all  the  way." 

Rob  did  not  say  a  word — he  hurried  after  her, 
with  long  strides,  keeping  up  with  her  as  she  flew 
along,  in  her  fright,  by  the  hedge- row.  "Oh, 
they  must  have  missed  me  by  this  time.  They 
will  be  wondering  where  I  have  been,"  she  said, 
breathless.  Rob  set  his  teeth  in  the  dark.  Nev- 
er in  his  life  had  he  been  so  humiliated.  Though, 
she  had  pledged  herself  to  him,  she  was  not  think- 
ing of  him  ;  and  in  all  the  experiences  of  his  life 
he  had  never  yet  known  this  supreme  mortifica- 
tion. He  had  been  loved  where  he  had  wooed. 
The  other  girls  whom  Rob  had  addressed  had 
forgotten  everything  for  him.  He  half  hated 
her,  though  he  loved  her,  and  felt  a  fierce  eager- 
ness to  have  her — to  make  her  his  altogether — 
to  snatch  her  from  the  great  people  who  looked 
down  upon  him — to  make  himself  master  of  her 
fate.  But  this  furious  kind  of  love  was  only  the 
excitement  of  the  moment.  At  the  bottom  of 
his  heart  he  was  fond  of  Margaret  (as  he  had 
been  of  other  Margarets  before).  He  could  not 
bear  the  idea  of  losing  her,  of  parting  from  her 
like  this,  in  wild  haste,  without  any  of  the  lin- 
gering caresses  of  parting. 

"Is  this  how  you  are  going  away  from  me, 
Margaret,"  he  cried,  "flying  —  as  if  you  were 
glad  to  part,  not  sorry,  when  we  don't  know 
when  we  may  meet  again  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  that  I  am  glad  ;  it  is  only  thnt 
they  will  wonder — they  will  not  know  where  I 
have  been." 

"Will  vou  ever  be  as  breathless  running  to 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


101 


me  as  you  are  to  run  away  from  me  ?"  he  cried. 
"Slop,  Margaret!  one  moment  before  we  come 
near  the  gate,  and  say  good-bye." 

She  yielded  with  panting  breath.  That  sacred 
kiss  of  parting — which,  to  do  him  justice,  he  gave 
with  all  the  fervor  that  became  the  occasion,  giv- 
ing, as  he  felt,  his  very  heart  with  it — how  glad 
she  was  to  escape  from  it,  and  run  on  ! 

"  Oh  no !  I  will  not  forget — I  could  not  for- 
get ! "  she  cried. 

Who  was  this,  once  more  in  the  lovers'  way  ? 
A  dark  figure,  who,  they  could  see,  by  the  move- 
ment of  his  head,  turned  to  look  at  them,  buj; 
went  on  without  taking  any  notice.  Margaret, 
anxious  as  she  was,  recognized  Randal  Burnside, 
and  wondered  that  he  did  not  notice  her,  then 
was  glad  to  think  that  he  could  not  know  her. 
Rob  had  other  thoughts.  "Again  found  out — 
and  by  the  same  fellow !"  he  said  to  himself,  and 
gnashed  his  teeth.  Randal  was  going  over  to 
Earl's-hall,  a  familiar  visitor,  while  he,  the  be- 
trothed husband  of  the  daughter  of  Earl's-hall, 
had  to  skulk  about  the  house  in  the  dark,  and 
take  leave  of  his  love  under  cover  of  the  night. 
Not  without  bitter  humiliations  was  this  hour  of 
his  triumph. 

"We  must  wait  till  he  is  out  of  sight,"  he 
said,  hoarsely,  holding  her  back.  It  was  like 
holding  an  eager  greyhound  in  the  leash.  "  Oh, 
Margaret,"  he  said,  and  despite  and  vexation 
filled  his  heart,  "you  are  not  thinking  of  me  at 
all — and  here  we  have  to  part!  You  were  not 
in  such  a  hurry  when  you  used  to  cry  upon  my 
shoulder,  and  take  a  little  comfort  from  my 
love!" 

This,  and  the  necessity  of  keeping  back  till 
Randal  had  passed,  touched  the  girl's  heart. 

"It  is  not  my  fault  that  I  am  in  such  a  hur- 
ry," she  said.  "Oh,  you  were  kind  —  kind — 
kinder  than  any  one.  I  will  never  forget  it, 
Rob." 

"  It  was  not  kindness,"  he  said,  "it  was  love." 

"Yes,  Rob."  She  put  her  soft  cheek  to  his 
with  compunction  in  her  heart.  She  had  been 
so  eager  to  get  away,  and  yet  how  kind  he  had 
been — kinder  than  any  one!  Thus  there  came 
a  little  comfort  for  him  after  all. 

But  just  then,  with  a  sudden  flutter,  as  of  a 
bird  roused  from  the  branches,  some  one  came 
out  through  the  gate,  which  Randal  had  not 
closed  behind  him — a  figure  of  a  woman  indis- 
tinguishable against  the  dimness  of  the  twilight, 
with  a  little  thrill  and  tremor  about  her,  which 
somehow  made  itself  felt  though  she  could  not 
be  seen. 

"Is  that  you,  Miss  Margret?  Bell  sent  me 
to  look  for  you,"  she  said,  with  the  same  thrill 
and  quiver  in  her  voice. 

Rob  Glen  started  violently.  It  was  a  new 
shock  to  him,  and  he  had  already  met  with 
many  shocks  to  his  nerves  that  night.  Her 
name  came  to  his  lips  with  a  cry ;  but  he  had 
sufficient  sense  of  the  position  to  stop  himself. 
Jeanie !  was  it  possible,  in  the  malice  of  fate, 
that  this  was  the  Jeanie  of  whom  Margaret  had 
told  him?  He  grasped  her  in  his  arms  for  a 
moment  with  vehemence,  partly  because  of  that 
sudden  startling  interruption,  and,  with  one 
quickly  breathed  farewell  on  her  cheek,  turned 
and  went  away. 

"Oh,  Jeanie,  yes,  it  is  me.  I  am  very,  very 
sorry.    I  did  not  want  to  be  so  late.     Have  thev 


found  out  that  I  was  away  ?  have  they  been 
looking  for  me?"  cried  Margaret.  It  was  not, 
perhaps,  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Jeanie 
should  be  unmoved  in  her  reply. 

"  You're  no  looking  after  the  gentleman,"  she 
said.  "He's  gone  and  left  you,  feared  for  me ; 
and  you've  given  him  no  good-bye.  You  need- 
na  be  feared  for  me,  Miss  Margret.  Cry  him 
back,  and  bid  him  farewell,  as  a  lass  should  to 
her  lad.  I'm  nae  traitor.  '  You  needna  be  fear- 
ed that  Jeanie  will  betray  ye.  It's  no  in  my 
heart." 

"  Oh,  but  he's  gone,  Jeanie,"  said  Margaret, 
with  a  ring  of  relief  in  her  voice.  "And  oh, 
I'm  glad  to  be  at  home !  They  made  me  stay 
when  I  wanted  to  be  back.  Oh,  how  dark  it  is! 
Give  me  your  hand,  Jeanie,  for  I  cannot  see 
where  you  are  among  the  trees." 

Jeanie  held  out  her  hand  in  silence  and  re- 
luctantly, and  Margaret,  groping,  found  it,  and 
took  hold  of  it. 

"You  are  all  trembling,"  she  said. 

"And  if  I  am  all  trembling,  it's  easy  enough 
to  ken  why.  Standing  out  in  the  dark  among 
the  black  trees,  and  thinking  of  them  that's  gone 
to  their  rest,  and  waiting  for  one  that  was  not 
wanting  me.  Eh,  it's  no  so  long  since  you  had 
other  things  in  your  head,  Miss  Margret — your 
old  papa,  that  was  as  kind  as  ever  father  was. 
But  nobody  thinks  muckle  about  old  Sir  Ludo- 
vic  now." 

"Oh,  Jeanie!  I  think  upon  him  night  and 
day !"  cried  Margaret ;  and  what  with  the  re- 
proach, and  what  with  her  weariness  and  the 
past  excitement,  she  fell  into  sudden  tears. 

"  Is  that  you,  my  bonnie  lamb?"  said  another 
voice ;  and  Bell  came  out  t>f  the  gloom,  where 
she,  too,  had  been  on  the  watch.  "It's  cold 
and  it's  dreary,  and  you're  worn  to  death,"  she 
said.  "Oh,  Miss  Margret,  where  have  you  been, 
my  bonnie  doo,  wandering  about  the  house,  and 
greeting  till  your  bit  heart  is  sair  ?  Weel,  I  ken 
your  heart  is  sair,  and  mine  too.  What  will  we 
do  without  you,  John  and  me?  You  are  just 
the  light  of  our  eyes,  as  you  were  to  the  auld 
maister,  auld  Sir  Ludovic,  that  was  a  guid  mais- 
ter  to  him  and  to  me.  Eh,  to  think  this  should 
be  the  last  night,  after  sae  many  years !" 

"But,  Bell,"  said  Margaret,  calmed  by  tha 
sense  of  lawful  protection  and  the  shadow  of 
home,  "it  is  not  the  last  night  for  you  ?" 

"Ay,  my  bonnie  pet,  it's  that  or  little  else. 
When  you're  gane,  Miss  Margret,  a'  will  be  gane. 
And  my  lady's  a  good  woman ;  but  I  couldna 
put  up  with  her,  and  she  couldna  put  up  with 
me.  We're  no  fit  for  ither  service,  neither  me 
nor  John — na,  no  even  in  your  house,  my  bon- 
nie lamb,  for  I  know  that's  what  you're  gaun  to 
say.  Nae  new  house  nor  new  ways  for  John  and 
me.  We're  to  flit  into  a  bit  cot  o'  our  ain,  and 
there  we'll  bide  till  the  Lord  calls,  and  we  gang 
east  to  the  kirk-yard.  God  bless  ye,  my  bonnie 
bairn.  Run  up  the  stairs  ;  nobody  kens  you  were 
away;  for  weel  I  divined,"  said  Bell,  with  an 
earnestness  that  filled  Margaret's  soul  with  the 
sense  of  guilt — "weel  I  divined  that  ye  would 
have  little  heart  for  company  this  sorrowful 
night." 


102 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


Whkn  Margaret  stole  into  the  long  room, 
vhere  the  family  were  assembled  that  evening, 
she  heard  a  little  discussion  going  on  about  her- 
self. Ludovic  had  risen  up,  and  was  standing 
with  an  uneasy  look  upon  his  face,  preparing  to 
go  in  search  of  her,  while  Jean  was  asking  who 
had  seen  Margaret  last.  Randal  Burnside  had 
nime  in  only  a  few  minutes  before,  and  was  still 
standing  with  his  hat  in  his  hand;  and  he  it  was 
who  was  explaining  when  Margaret  entered. 

"I  saw  her  with  Bell  as  I  came  in,"  he  said 
(which  was  so  far  true  that  he  lingered  till  Bell 
had  met  her).  "  I  fear  she  has  been  making 
some  sad  pilgrimages  about  ihe  house.  Has  she 
ever  left  Earl's-hall  before  ?" 

"Never  —  not  for  a  single  day,"  said  kind 
Lady  Leslie ;  and  there,  was  a  little  pause  of 
commiseration.  "Poor  Margaret!"  they  all 
said,  in  their  various  tones. 

They  were  seated  at  one  end  of  the  long  room, 
two  lamps  making  a  partial  illumination  about 
them,  while  the  surrounding  space  lay  in  gloom. 
The  books  on  the  walls  shone  dimly  in  the  in- 
effectual light,  the  dim  sky  glimmered  darkly 
through  the  windows,  opening  this  little  in-door 
world  to  the  world  without.  Mrs.  Bellingham 
had  got  her  feet  up  on  a  second  chair,  for  there 
were  no  sofas  in  the  long  room.  Sunday  was  a 
tiring  day,  and  Lady  Leslie  had  yawned  several 
times,  and  would  have  liked  had  it  been  bed- 
time. She  was  a  woman  of  very  good  princi- 
ples, and  she  did  not  like  to  think  of  worldly  af- 
fairs on  Sundays ;  but  it  was  very  hard,  at  the 
same  time,  to  get  them  out  of  her  head.  As  for 
Miss  Leslie,  she  had  got  a  volume  of  sacred  poe- 
try, which  had  many  beautiful  pieces.  She  re- 
membered to  have  said  some  of  them  to  her  dear 
papa  on  the  Sunday  evenings  of  old,  between 
thirty  and  forty  years  ago-^  and  though  it  was  a 
long  time  since,  she  had  been  crying  a  little  to 
herself  over  the  thought.  Effie  was,  perhaps,  the 
only  thoroughly  awake  member  of  the  family; 
for  it  had  just  been  intimated  to  her  that  her 
aunt  Jean,  after  all,  had  invited  her  to  go  to 
the  Highlands  to  be  Margaret's  companion,  and 
her  heart  was  beating  high  with  pleasure.  Au- 
brey had  whispered  to  her  his  satisfaction  too. 
"Thank  Heaven  you  are  coming,"  he  said ;  "  we 
shall  not  be  so  very  funereal  after  all."  It  was 
while  she  was  still  full  of  smiles  from  this  whis- 
per, and  while  Randal  stood  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  giving  that  little  explanation  about  Mar- 
garet, that  Margaret  herself  stole  in,  with  a  little 
involuntary  swing  of  the  door  of  the  West  Cham- 
ber, through  which  she  came,  which  made  them 
all  start.  Margaret  w*as  very  pale  and  worn  out, 
with  dark  lines  under  her  eyes ;  and  she  came  at 
an  opportune  time,  when  they  were  all  sorry  for 
her.  Instead  of  scolding,  Lady  Leslie  came  up 
and  kissed  her. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  we  all  know  how  hard 
it  must  be  for  you  to-night;"  and  when  the  ready 
tears  brimmed  up  to  the  girl's  heavy  eyes,  the 
Krnod  woman  nearly  cried  too.  Her  heart  yearn- 
ed over  the  motherless  creature  thus  going  away 
from  all  she  had  ever  known. 

This  kiss,  and  the  little  murmur  of  sympathy, 
and  the  kind  looks  they  all  cast  upon  her,  had 
the  strangest  effect  upon  Margaret.  She  gave  a 
little  startled  cry,  and  looked  round  upon  them 


with  a  momentary  impulse  of  desperation.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  deceiving 
any  one  before.  But  now,  coining  in  worn  with 
excitement  and  trouble  of  so  different  a  kind,  all 
at  once  there  burst  upon  Margaret  a  sense  of  the 
wickedness,  the  guiltiness,  the  falsehood  she  was 
practising.  She  had  never  thought  of  it  before. 
But  now  when  she  gave  that  startled  look  round, 
crying  "Oh!"  with  a  pang  of  compunction  and 
wondering  self-accusation,  the  whole  enormity  of 
it  rushed  on  her  mind.  She  felt  that  she  ought 
to  have  stood  up  in  the  midst  of  the  group  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  even  "before  the  gentlemen," 
and  have  owned  the  truth.  "I  am  not  innocent 
as  you  think  me,  it  is  not  poor  papa  I  am  crying 
for.  I  was  not  so  much  as  thinking  of  papa," 
was  what  she  ought  to  have  said.  But  there 
was  only  one  individual  present  who  had  the 
least  understanding  of  her,  or  even  guessed  what 
the  start  and  the  exclamation  could  mean.  When 
she  opened  those  great  eyes  wide  in  her  sudden 
horror  of  what  she  was  doing,  Lady  Leslie,  a 
little  frightened  lest  grief  should  be  taking  the 
wilder  form  of  passion,  unknown  to  the  placid 
mind,  in  this  poor  iittle  uneducated,  undisciplined 
girl,  did  all  she  could  to  soothe  her  with  gentle 
words.  "We  are  all  a  little  dull  to-night,"  she 
said.  "My  dear,  I  am  sure  the  best  thing  you 
can  do  is  to  go  to  bed." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham,  "  we  are  all 
going  to  bed.  Though  it  is  not  a  day  when  one 
is  supposed  to  do  very  much,  yet  there  is  no  day 
in  the  week  more  tiring  than  Sunday.  We  al- 
ways keep  early  hours  on  Sunday.  By  all  means, 
Margaret,  go  to  your  room  and  get  a  good  rest 
before  to  -  morrow.  You  have  been  making  a 
figure  of  yourself,  crying,  and  you  are  not  fit  to 
be  seen ;  though,  indeed,  we  might  all  have  been 
crying  if  we  had  not  felt  that  it  would  never  do 
to  give  way.  When  you  think,"  said  Jean,  sit- 
ting back  majestically,  with  her  feet  upon  the 
second  chair,  "of  all  that  has  happened  since  we 
came  here,  and  that  nobody  can  tell  whether  we 
will  ever  meet  under  this  old  roof  again  !" 

"Let  us  hope  that  Margaret  will  come  back 
often;  and  I  am  sure  she  will  always  find  her 
brother's  house  a  home,"  said  Lady  Leslie,  still 
holding  her  hand  and  patting  her  shoulder  kind- 
ly. All  these  words  came  into  her  mind  in  a 
confusion  which  prevented  her  from  realizing 
what  they  meant.  She  saw  Jean  shake  her 
head,  and  demand  sadly  how  that  could  be,  if 
Ludovic  were  to  sell  the  house,  as  he  had  just 
been  saying?  But  even  this  extraordinary  sug- 
gestion did  not  wake  Margaret's  preoccupied 
mind.  They  all  said  "Hush!"  looking  at  her. 
It  was  supposed  among  them  that  the  only  one 
who  would  really  suffer  by  the  sale  of  Earl's- 
hall  was  Margaret,  and  that  to  hear  of  the  idea 
would  be  more  than  she  could  bear.  But  in  her 
confused  condition  she  took  no  notice  of  any- 
thing. She  did  not  seem  to  care  for  Earl's-hall, 
or  for  the  family  trouble,  or  for  anything  in  the 
world  except  this  strange  thing  which  absorbed 
her,  and  which  none  of  them  knew.  The  lamps 
and  the  circle  of  faces  were  like  a  phantasmago- 
ria before  her  eyes,  a  wreath  of  white  sparks  in 
the  darkness,  all  pale,  all  indistinct  against  the 
dim  background.  Randal  only  became  a  little 
more  real  to  her  by  dint  of  what  seemed  to  her 
the  reproachful  look  he  gave  her.  She  thought 
it  was  a  reproachful  look.    He  had  seen  her  out- 


I 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


103 


of-doors,  though  he  had  not  taken  any  notice  of 
her.  She  remembered  now  that  he  had  not  even 
showed  her  the  civility  of  taking  oft'  his  hat. 

"He  has  no  respect  for  me  any  more,"  Mar- 
garet said  to  herself;  and  this  thought  went  deep, 
with  a  pang,  to  her  very  heart. 

Bell  was  waiting  for  her  in  her  room,  where 
already  her  boxes  were  packed,  and  most  of  her 
preparations  made ;  and  poor  Margaret,  her  mind 
all  confused  with  a  sense  that  what  was  supposed 
to  occupy  and  engross  her  was  scarcely  in  her 
thoughts  at  all,  gave  herself  up  into  the  old  wom- 
an's hard  yet  tender  hands,  as  passive  as  a  child, 
with  all  the  ease  that  perfect  confidence  gives. 
She  was  not  afraid  of  Bell,  nor  did  she  feel  the 
guilt  of  keeping  from  her  that  uncomfortable  se- 
cret which  was  no  happiness  to  her,  poor  child, 
and  which  she  would  so  gladly  have  pushed  aside 
from  her  own  mind  had  it  been  possible.  "  Eh, 
1  wonder  if  onybody  will  ever  take  the  pride  in 
it  that  I  have  done,"  Bell  said,  taking  down  her 
young  mistress's  hair,  and  letting  it  fall  in  long, 
soft  undulation  of  silky  brown  over  her  hands. 
She  turned  her  head  away  while  she  brushed, 
that  no  tear  might  drop  upon  it.  "Na,  nae- 
body  will  take  the  same  pride  in  it  as  me :  for 
I've  been  a'  ye've  had  to  bring  ye  up  from  a  bairn, 
my  bonnie,  bonnie  darlin' :  and  nae  ither  woman 
can  ever  be  that.  It's  like  taking  the  heart  out 
o'  my  breast  to  see  you  turn  your  back  on  Earl's- 
hall." 

The  same  words  had  been  said  to  her  not  very 
long  before,  and  in  a  way  which  ought  to  have 
touched  her  more  deeply.  Margaret  trembled  a 
little  with  the  recollection.  "But  I  will  come 
back  again,  Bell,  and  see  yon,"  she  said,  with  a 
far  more  ready  response.  She  pulled  down  the 
old  woman's  arms  about  her  neck,  and  clung  to 
her.  "Oh,  I  will  come  back!"  she  cried;  "Bell, 
there  will  never  be  anybody  in  the  world  like 
you. " 

"You  maunna  say  that,  my  bonnie  lamb. 
Many,  many  there  are  in  the  world  better  worth 
thinking  upon  than  the  like  o'  me.  I  am  no  sae 
selfish  a  creature  as  that ;  bnt  you'll  keep  a  cor- 
ner for  your  old  Bell,  Miss  Margret,  ay,  and 
auld  John  too.  He's  just  speechless  with  greet- 
in':  but  he  canna  yield  to  shed  a  tear — and  a 
temper  like  the  auld  enemy  himsel'.  But  it's  no 
temper,  it's  his  heart  that's  breaking.  You'll  no 
forget  the  auld  man  ?  and  whiles  ye'll  write  us  a 
word  to  say  you're  well  and  happy,  and  getting 
up  your  heart?" 

"How  will  I  ever  get  up  my  heart,"  cried 
Margaret,  "in  a  strange  place,  with  nobody,  no- 
body— not  one  that  cares  for  me  ?" 

"Whisht,  whisht,  my  darling!  You'll  find 
plenty  that  will  care  for  you — maybe  ower  many, 
my  bonnie  doo — for  you'll  be  a  rich  lady  and 
have  a  grand  house,  far  finer  than  puir  Earl's- 
ha'.  And  oh,  Miss  Margret,  above  a'  take  you 
great  care  wha  you  set  your  heart  on.  There's 
some  that  are  fair  to  see  and  little  good  at  the 
heart,  and  a  young  creature  is  easy  deceived. 
You  mustna  go  by  looks,  and  you  mustna  let 
your  heart  be  tangled  with  the  first  that  comes. 
Eh,  if  Sir  Ludovic  had  but  lived  a  little  longer, 
and  gotten  you  a  good  man  afore  he  slippit 
away ! " 

Margaret  was  silenced,  and  could  not  say  a 
word.  If  he  bad  known  this,  what  would  he 
have  thought  of  it?    Would  he  have  handed  his 


little  Peggy  over  to  the  first  that  came?  Would 
he  have  chosen  for  her,  and  made  this  confusing 
harassing  bondage  into  something  legitimate  and 
holy?  Margaret  received  the  thought  of  that 
possibility  with  a  gasp,  not  of  wishing,  but  of 
terror.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  escaped 
something  from  which  there  could  have  been  no 
escape. 

"But  that's  far  from  your  thoughts  as  yet," 
said  Bell,  "and  it's  no  me  that  will  trouble  your 
bonnie  head  with  the  like  o'  that  before  the  time ; 
and  the  ladies  will  take  great  care — I'm  no  feared 
but  what  they  will  take  great  care.  They  will 
keep  poor  lads  away,  and  poor  lads  are  aye  the 
maist  danger.  Here  I'm  just  doing  what  I  said 
I  wouldna  do !  But  eh,  we're  silly  folk ;  we 
canna  see  how  the  bairns  are  to  be  guided  that 
gang  from  us :  as  if  God  would  bide  in  Fife  as 
well  as  the  like  o'  me :  as  if  he  wasna  aye  there 
to  baud  my  darlin'  by  the  hand !" 

Bell  paused  to  dry  her  eyes,  and  to  twist  in  a 
knot  for  the  night  the  long  locks  of  the  pretty 
hair  in  which  nobody  again  would  ever  take  so 
much  pride. 

"And,  Miss  Margret,"  she  said,  "you'll  no 
let  some  light-headed  thing  of  a  maid  tear  thae 
bonnie  locks  out  o'  your  head  with  her  curlings 
and  frizzings?  Sir  Ludovic  couldna  endure 
them.  He  would  aye  have  it  like  silk,  shining 
in  the  sun.  He  never  could  bide  to  see  it  neg»- 
lected.  The  ladies  even,  though  they're  no  so 
young  as  they  once  were,  did  you  ever  see  such 
heads?  But  yours  is  as  God  made  it,  and  as 
bonnie  as  a  flower.  And  you'll  aye  mind  your 
duty,  my  bonnie  darlin',  and  your  prayers,  and 
remember  your  Creator  in  the  days  o'  your  youth. 
And  dinna  think  ower  muckle  about  your  dress- 
es, nor  about  lads.  That  will  come  in  its  time. 
I'm  just  beginning  again,  though  I  said  I  wouldna 
do  it !  But  oh,  to  think  it's  the  last  night,  and 
I'll  never  put  you  to  your  bed  again,  nor  gie  you 
good  advice,  nor  keep  you  from  the  cauld,  nor 
take  it  upon  me  to  find  fault  with  my  bonnie 
young  lady !  I  canna  tell  what  will  be  the  use 
of  me  mair  when  my  bonnie  bird  flies  away." 

"Oh,  Bell,  I  will  come  back;  I  will  come 
back!" 

"Ay,  you'll  come  back,  my  darlin'  bairn  ;  but 
if  you  come  a  hundred  times,  and  a  hundred  to 
that,  you'll  never  be  the  same,  Miss  Margret. 
The  Lord  bless  you,  my  bonnie  lamb — but  you'll 
never  be  the  same." 

Whether  this  was  a  very  good  preparation  for 
the  long  night's  rest  which  Mrs.  Belhngham 
thought  necessary  for  travellers,  may  perhaps  be 
doubted.  But  Margaret  soon  cried  herself  to 
sleep  when  Bell  withdrew.  She  was  too  much 
exhausted  with  excitement  to  be  further  excited, 
and  this  gentle  chapter  of  domestic  life,  the  re- 
turn of  the  faces  and  voices,  and  looks  and  feel- 
ings familiar  to  her,  gave  some  comfort  to  the 
girl's  overworn  brain.  They  interfered  between 
her  and  that  strange  scene  in  the  farm-house. 
They  formed  a  new  event,  a  something  which 
had  happened  since,  to  soften  to  her  the  trouble 
and  commotion  of  that  strange  interruption  of 
her  life.  She  slept,  and  woke  in  the  morning 
with  a  sense  of  relief  which  at  first  she  could 
scarcely  account  for.  What  was  it  of  comfort 
and  amelioration  that  had  happened  to  her  ? 
Was  it  all  a  dream  that  her  father  was  dead, 
that  her  youthful  existence  was  closed  ?     No,  it 


104 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


was  that  she  was  going  away.  Margaret  shud- 
dered and  trembled  with  wonder  to  think  that  it 
was  possible  this  could  be  a  relief  to  her.  But 
yet  it  was  so.  She  could  not  doubt  it,  she 
could  not  deny  it  to  herself.  When  she  ought 
to  have  been  broken-hearted,  she  was  glad.  To 
go  away,  to  escape  from  all  that  was  so  secret 
and  so  strange  was  so  much  a  comfort  to  her, 
that  she  had  almost  forgotten  that  she  was  leav- 
ing home  at  the  same  time,  going  out  upon  a 
strange  and  unrealized  existence,  leaving  the 
friends  of  her  infancy,  the  house  she  was  born 
in,  all  the  familiar  circumstances  of  her  life,  and 
her  father's  grave,  where  he  had  been  laid  so 
lately. 

Margaret  felt  vaguely  with  her  mind  that  all 
these  farewells  ought  to  have  broken  her  heart, 
and  she  shed  a  few  tears  because  Bell  did  so, 
because  old  John,  speechless  and  lowering  like 
a  thunder-cloud,  turned  his  back  upon  her  and 
could  not  say  good-bye.  John  had  tossed  her 
trunks  on  to  the  cart  with  the  rest  with  absolute 
violence,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  break  them 
to  pieces ;  his  face  was  dark  with  woe  which  wore 
the  semblance  of  wrath.  He  turned  his  back  upon 
her  when  she  went  to  shake  hands  with  him, 
and  Margaret  turned  from  the  door  of  the  old 
gray  house  with  tears  dropping  like  rain,  but  oh  ! 
for  her  hard  heart!  with  an  unreasonable,  un- 
feeling sensation  of  relief,  glad  to  get  away  from 
EaiTs-hall  and  Rob  Glen,  and  all  that  might 
follow.  They  thought  it  was  perhaps  the  socie- 
ty of  Effie  which  had  "  made  it  so  much  easier" 
for  her ;  and  Mrs.  Bellingham  congratulated  her- 
self on  her  own  discrimination  in  having  thus 
pleased  Ludovic  and  consoled  Margaret. 

Dr.  Burnside  and  his  wife,  who  came  to  the 
railway  to  see  the  party  off",  applauded  her  ten- 
derly, and  bade  God  bless  her  for  a  brave  girl 
who  was  bearing  her  burden  as  a  Christian 
ought.  Did  Randal  know  better  what  it  was 
that  supported  her,  and  made  even  the  sight  of 
the  grave,  high  up  upon  the  mound,  a  possible 
thing  to  bear?  Did  he  know  why  it  was  that 
she  went  away  almost  eagerly,  glad  to  be  free? 
She  gave  him  a  wistful,  inquiring  look,  as  he 
stood  by  himself  a  little  apart,  looking  at  the 
group  with  serious  eves.  Randal  was  the  last 
to  divine  what  her  real  feelings  were,  but  how 
could  Margaret  tell  this  ?  He  thought  she  was 
calmed  and  stilled  by  the  consciousness  of  a  new 
bond  formed,  and  a  new  love  that  was  her  own, 
and  was  grieved  for  her,  feeling  all  the  vexa- 
tions she  must  encounter  before  this  love  could 
be  acknowledged,  and  doubting  in  his  heart 
whether  Rob  Glen,  he  who  could  press  his  suit 
at  such  a  moment  and  keep  his  secret,  was  a 
lover  worth  acknowledging.  But  Randal  had 
no  right  to  interfere.  He  looked  at  her  with 
pity  in  his  eyes,  and  thought  he  understood,  and 
was  very  sorry,  while  she,  looking  at  him  wist- 
fully, wondered,  did  not  he  know  ? 

Thus  Margaret  went  away  from  her  home  and 
her  childhood,  and  from  those  bonds  which  she 
had  bound  upon  herself  without  understanding 
them,  and  which  still,  without  understanding, 
she  was  afraid  of  and  uneasy  under.  Sir  Lu- 
dovic and  his  wife  left  EaiTs-hall  at  the  same 
time  to  join  their  children  in  Edinburgh,  and 
there  to  make  other  calculations  of  all  they 
could,  and  all  they  could  not,  do.  Perhaps 
when  they  were  at  a  distance,  the  problem  would 


seem  less  difficult.  Earl's-hall  was  left  silent 
and  solitary,  standing  up  gray  against  the  light, 
the  old  windows  wide  open,  the  chambers  all 
empty,  nobody  stirring  but  Jeanie,  who  was  put- 
ting all  things  into  the  order  and  rigidness  of 
death.  Bell,  for  her  part,  sat  down-stairs  in  her 
vaulted  room,  with  her  apron  thrown  over  her 
head ;  and  John  had  gone  out,  though  it  was 
still  morning,  "to  look  at  the  pitawties,"  with  a 
lowering  brow,  but  eyes  that  saw  nothing  through 
the  mist  of  unwilling  tears. 

That  very  night  Rob  Glen  came  back  to  his 
seat  under  the  silver  fir,  and  gazed  at  the  vacant 
house  with  eager  and  restless  eyes.  He  was 
not  serene,  like  his  mother,  but  unhappy  and 
dissatisfied,  and  with  a  great  doubt  as  to  the 
efficacy  of  all  that  had  been  done.  Margaret 
had  mortified  him  to  the  heart,  even  in  giving 
him  her  promise.  He  was  a  man  who  had  been 
loved ;  and  to  be  thus  accepted  with  reluctance 
gave  a  stab  to  his  pride  which  it  was  hard  to 
bear.  And  perhaps  it  was  this  sentiment  which 
brought  him,  angry  and  impatient  and  morti- 
fied, back  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  house 
from  which  his  new  love  had  just  gone  away, 
but  where,  he  could  not  but  recollect,  his  old 
love  still  was.  Jeanie  had  gone  about  her 
work  all  day  with  that  arrow  in  her  heart.  She 
had  known  very  well  what  was  coming,  had 
watched  it  even  as  it  came,  and  sadly  contem- 
plated the  transference  to  her  young  mistress  of 
all  that  had  been  so  dear  to  herself.  She  had 
followed  the  course  of  the  story  almost  as  dis- 
tinctly as  if  she  had  been  present  at  all  their  in- 
terviews ;  seeing  something,  for  her  turret  had 
glimpses  of  the  wood,  and  guessing  more,  for 
did  not  Jeanie  know  ?  But  yet  to  see  them  to- 
gether had  been  for  the  moment  more  than 
Jeanie  could  bear.  It  had  seemed  an  insult  to 
her  that  Rob  should  come,  leading  her  succes- 
sor, to  the  very  house  in  which  she  was  ;  and  her 
more  charitable  certainty  that  he  did  not  know 
of  her  presence  there  had  gone  out  of  her  mind 
in  the  sharpness  of  the  shock.  And  when  her 
work  was  over,  Jeanie  too  went  out,  with  a  nat- 
ural impulse  of  misery,  to  the  same  spot  where 
she  had  seen  them  together.  "No  fear  that 
he'll  come  here  the  night,"  Jeanie  said  to  her- 
self, bitterly ;  and  lo  !  before  the  thought  had 
been  more  than  formed  in  her  mind,  Rob  was 
by  her  side.  She  gave  a  cry,  and  sprang  from 
him  in  anger ;  but  Rob  was  not  the  man  to  let 
a  girl  fly  from  him  over  whom  he  had  ancient 
rights  of  wooing.  His  countenance  was  down- 
cast enough  before.  He  put  into  it  a  look  of 
contrition  and  melancholy  patience  now. 

"Jeanie,"  he  said,  "will  yon  say  nothing, 
not  a  word  of  forgiveness,  to  an  old  friend  ?" 

"What  can  the  like  of  me  say  that  could  be 
pleasant?"'  said  Jeanie;  "you're  far  ower  grand 
a  gentleman,  Maister  Glen,  to  have  anything  to 
say  to  the  like  of  me." 

"  You  know  very  well  that  yon  are  doing  me 
a  great  deal  of  injustice," he  said,  sadly;  "but 
I  will  not  defend  myself.  If  I  had  but  known 
that  you  were  here — but  I  did  not  know." 

"I  never  heard  that  you  took  much  trouble 
to  ask,"  said  Jeanie;  "and  wherefore  should 
you  ?  You  were  aye  far  above  me.  There  was 
a  time  when  I  was  silly,  and  thought  little  of 
that ;  but  I  ken  better  now." 

"I  don't  know  that  I   am  above  anvbodv ; 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


105 


there  are  many  people  that  are  ahove  me,"  he 
said,  with  a  sigh,  and  a  look  of  dreary  vacancy 
beyond  her,  which  deeply  provoked  yet  interest- 
ed the  girl  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Ay," she  said,  "you  will  feel  for  other  folk 
now ;  you  will  ken  what  it  means  now.  But 
I've  naething  to  say  to  you,  Maister  Glen,  and 
I'm  wishing  ye  nae  harm.  A's  lang  ended  that 
ever  was  between  you  and  me." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that,  Jeanie?''  he  said. 
It  was  not  in  Rob's  nature  to  let  any  one  es- 
cape from  him  upon  whom  he  had  ever  had  a 
hold. 

"Ay,  I'm  sure  of  it,"  she  cried  ;  "and  you 
are  but  a  leer  and  a  deceiver  if  you  dare  speak 
to  me  in  that  voice,  after  what  I've  seen  with 
my  ain  een  —  after  the  way  I've  seen  ye  with 
Miss  Margret!  Oh,  she's  ower  good  for  you, 
ower  innocent  for  one  that  hasna  a  true  heart! 
Last  night,  no  further  gane,  I  saw  you  here 
with  my  bonnie  young  lady;  and  now,  if  I 
would  let  you,  that's  how  you  would  speak  to 
me." 

"Jeanie," he  said,  "it's  all  just  that  you  are 
saying ;  but  how  do  you  know  how  I  was  led  to 
it?  You  could  not  see  that.  She  came  out,  in 
her  trouble,  to  cry  here,  and  I  was  here  when 
she  came.  Could  I  see  her  cry  and  not  try  to 
comfort  her?  I  don't  pretend  to  be  strong,  to 
be  able  to  resist  temptation.  I  should  have 
thought  of  you,  but  you  were  not  here ;  I  did 
not  know  where  you  were.  And  she,  poor 
child,  was  in  great  need  of  some  one  to  rest 
upon,  some  one  to  console  her.  That  was  how 
it  came  about.  You  know  me.  I  did  not  for- 
get you ;  but  she  was  there,  and  in  want  of 
some  one  to  be  a  comfort  to  her.  I  am  confess- 
ing to  you  like  a  Catholic  to  his  priest ;  for  all 
that  you  say  there  is  nothing  between  us  now." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "speak  to  me  no  more, 
Rob  Glen.  I  canna  tell  what's  ill  and  what's 
well,  when  you  talk  and  talk,  with  that  voice 
that  would  wile  a  bird  from  the  tree." 

"  Why  do  you  find  such  fault  with  my  voice  ?" 
he  said,  coming  a  little  nearer.  "It  may  be  as 
you  say,  Jeanie,  that  all  is  ended ;  but,  at  least, 
your  good  heart  will  do  me  justice.  You  were 
away,  and  here  was  a  poor  young  creature  in 
sore  trouble.  Say  I've  been  foolish,  say  my  life 
has  gone  away  from  me  into  another's  hands ; 
but  do  not  say  that  I  forgot  my  Jeanie ;  that  I 
never  did — that  I  will  never  do." 

"Oh,  dinna  speak  to  me!"  cried  the  girl — 
"dinna  Speak  to  me!  I'm  neither  your  Jeanie, 
nor  I  will  not  give  an  ear  to  anything  you  can 
say. " 

"  Then  I  will  wait  till  you  change  your  mind," 
he  said ;  and  as  she  turned  hastily  toward  the 
house,  Rob  went  with  her,  gentle  as  a  woman, 
respectful,  with  a  sort  of  deprecation  and  melan- 
choly softness.  Perhaps  she  was  right,  he  would 
allow,  with  a  soft  tone  of  sorrow.  Life  might 
be  changed,  the  die  was  cast;  but  still  it  was 
not  in  Rob's  nature  to  let  any  one  drop.  He 
talked  to  her  with  a  tone  of  studious  gentleness 
and  quiet.  "At  least  we  may  be  friends,"  he 
said. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

The  party  of  travellers  went  to  Perth,  and 
from  thence  wandered  among  the  hills  and 
woods,  and  by  the  wild  and  lonely  glens,  to 
which  that  gate  of  the  Highlands  gives  an  en- 
trance. It  was  all  new  to  Margaret.  In  all  her 
life  she  had  seen  nothing  more  imposing  than 
the  lion  crest  of  Arthur's  Seat,  as  seen  across  the 
stately  breadth  of  the  Firth,  the  low  twin  heads 
of  the  Lomonds,  or,  in  the  far  distance  among 
the  mists,  the  long  withdrawing  line  of  the 
Grampians.  When  she  saw  these  misty  hills 
nearer,  when  she  watched  the  clouds  at  play 
upon  them,  and  counted  the  flying  shadows,  and 
shared  the  instantaneous  brightening  of  the  sun- 
glints,  what  wonder  that  Margaret  felt  her  heart 
rise  in  her  breast  notwithstanding  all  the  trouble 
there.  She  had  not  thought  it  possible  that  the 
world  could  be  so  lovely.  The  weather  was  fine, 
with  now  and  then  a  rainy  day,  and  the  days 
were  still  long,  though  midsummer  was  past. 

Mrs.  Bellingham  and  Miss  Leslie  were  good 
travellers.  Given  two  comfortable  places  in  a 
carriage,  and  weather  at  all  tolerable,  and  they 
were  ready  to  drive  anywhere,  and  to  go  on 
from  morning  to  night.  A  bag  fitted,  with  all 
manner  of  conveniences,  a  novel,  a  piece  of 
knitting,  and  plenty  of  shawls,  was  all  they  de- 
manded. Even  when  it  rained  they  could  make 
themselves  very  comfortable  in  the  hotels,  find- 
ing out  who  everybody  was — and  did  not  object 
even  to  walking  within  limits.  And  they  knew 
about  everything :  which  were  the  best  routes, 
and  how  much  the  carriages  ought  to  cost  in 
which  they  preferred  travelling ;  for  it  did  not 
suit  these  ladies  to  go  in  coaches  or  other  public 
vehicles  along  with  the  raskal  multitude — and 
indeed,  as  it  was  still  only  July,  the  raskal  mul- 
titude had  as  yet  scarcely  started  on  its  peregri- 
nations. As  soon  as  they  felt  that  their  crape 
was  safe  under  the  shelter  of  large  water-proofs 
they  were  happy.  Mrs.  Bellingham  took  the 
best  seat  with  undaunted  composure ;  but  Miss 
Leslie  thought  it  necessary  to  go  through  a  good 
many  processes  of  explanation  or  apology  before 
she  placed  herself  by  her  sister's  side. 

"  Oh  no !  I  cannot  think  of  always  taking  that 
place:  reallyT,  Margaret,  you  must  have  it  to- 
day. You  can  see  the  view  so  much  better. 
Dearest  Jean,  do  make  dear  Margaret  take  my 
place.  She  sat  all  yesterday  with  her  back  to 
the  horses ;  and  I  don't  mind,  not  in  the  very 
least.  I  would  much  rather  sit  with  my  back  to 
the  horses.  I  never  have  been  used  to  monopo- 
lize the  best  place." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Grace,  and  get  in," said 
Mrs.  Bellingham.  "  I  suppose  you  mean  that 
I  do — and  I  think,  at  my  age,  it  is  my  place  to 
have  the  best  seat.  You  are  only  wasting  our 
time,  now  that  we  really  have  a  fine  day.  Now 
this  is  very  comfortable.  It  is  the  kind  of  thing 
I  always  enjoy :  a  decent  carriage,  and  horses 
that  are  not  bad  —  I  have  seen  better,  but  we 
might  have  a  great  deal  worse  —  and  two  nice 
girls  opposite,  and  a  gentleman  at  hand  what- 
ever happens,  and  as  lovely  a  drive  before  us  as 
heart  could  desire.  We  will  stop  for  lunch  at 
Kenmore,  Aubrey;  do  you  know  Kenmore?  It 
is  close  to  Taymouth,  which  is  as  beautiful  a 
place  as  any  you  could  see.  It  always  reminds 
me  of  Windsor  Castle,  except  that  it  lies  low, 


106 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


nnd  Windsor  is  on  a  li ill.  We  go  by  the  side  of 
Loch  Tay,  which  is  a  beautiful  loch.  Margaret ; 
not  so  picturesque  as  some  you  will  see  farther 
west,  but  beautiful  for  all  that.  Now,  Grace, 
the  girls  have  settled  themselves,  and  Aubrey  is 
on  the  box.  Are  we  to  wait  for  you  all  day  ? 
You  always  keep  us  waiting  when  every  one  is 
ready  to  start." 

"It  is  only  because  I  wanted  some  one  to 
have  this  seat,"  said  Miss  Grace,  anxiously.  "  I 
have  been  this  way  before,  and  the  dear  girls 
have  not;  or  Aubrey,  perhaps,  dear  Aubrey 
would  rather  be  here  than  on  the  box  ?  It  would 
be  much  more  amusing  for  you  all,  dear  Jean, 
than  to  have  me.  Oh  !"  said  the  trembling  lady, 
as  her  more  energetic  sister  dragged  her  in  with 
a  grip  of  her  arm,  and  the  door  was  closed  upon 
her.  She  kept  asking  Margaret  and  Effie  all  the 
day  to  change  places  with  her,  and  kept  the  par- 
ty in  a  fidget;  "for,  you  see,  I  have  been  this 
way  before,"  she  said.  It  was  a  bright  day,  and 
Loch  Tay  lay  before  them,  a  sheet  of  light,  be- 
tween pale  and  golden,  its  fringe  of  trees  wet 
with  past  rain,  and  big  Ben  Lawers  rising  huge 
into  the  blue  air. 

Margaret  felt  that  she  had  to  make  an  effort 
to  retain  .the  sadness  that  she  had  kept  round  her 
like  a  mantle.  How  could  she  laugh  ?  how  could 
she  let  them  talk,  and  chime  in  with  irrestrain- 
able  reply  and  remark,  when  only  such  a  little 
while  ago — not  yet  a  month  ago  ? — she  said  to 
herself.  But  when  things  had  come  so  far  as 
this,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  little  veil 
of  natural  sentiment  could  keep  her  eyes  always 
drooping.  Her  face  began  to  glow  again,  to 
change  from  white  to  red,  and  back  into  that 
delicate  paleness  which  was  habitual  to  her.  The 
clouds  and  the  mists  cleared  away  from  her  brown 
eyes.  The  scent  of  the  young  birches,  the  plash 
of  the  water  on  the  shore,  the  soft  shower  of  rain- 
drops now  and  then  shaken  out  over  their  heads 
by  some  mischievous  breeze  as  they  passed ;  the 
atmosphere  so  heavenly  clear,  the  sun  so  gay  and 
friendly,  beguiled  her  out  of  her  trouble. 

In  grief,  as  in  sickness,  there  is  a  moment 
when  the  burden  is  sensibly  lightened,  the  bonds 
relax  for  the  first  time.  This  moment  came  to 
Margaret  now.  She  was  terrified  to  feel  how 
light  her  heart  was,  and  what  an  involuntary 
glow  of  exhilaration  had  come  over  her.  Noth- 
ing had  happened  to  make  her  glad.  She  was 
only  rising  again,  in  spite  of  herself,  into  the 
beauty  of  the  common  day,  into  the  light  and 
brightness  of  her  youth.  "And  indeed,  but  for 
the  sense  that  she  ought  not  to  be  happy,  Mar- 
garet might  well  have  felt  the  well-being  of  the 
moment  enough  for  her.  The  fresh  air,  and  the 
pleasant  progress,  and  all  the  beautiful  sights 
around  her,  were  brightened  by  Effie's  bright 
countenance,  full  of  smiles  and  delight,  and  by 
the  other  companion  on  the  box,  who  leaned  over 
them  to  shower  down  a  flood  of  comments  upon 
everything  —  comments  which  were  generally 
amusing  enough,  and  often  witty  to  Margaret's 
simple  ears.  And  even  the  self-contented  com- 
fort of  Jean,  sitting  well  back  in  her  corner,  with 
her  eau-de-cologne,  her  purse,  her  little  paper- 
knife,  her  novel  lest  the  drive  should  get  dull, 
and  Miss  Grace's  anxious  regret  to  have  the  best 
side,  and  desire  that  some  one  would  "change 
seats  with  her,"  were  full  of  fun,  full  of  amuse- 
ment to  the  inexperienced  girl.     Nature  betrav- 


ed  her  into  laughter  now  and  then,  into  smiles 
between  times. 

It  was  only  a  month  yet,  not  quite  a  month, 
since  old  Sir  Ludovic  died ;  but  was  it  Marga- 
ret's fault  that  she  was  only  eighteen  ?  These 
four  weeks  had  lasted  the  length  of  generations. 
Now  they  were  creeping  into  their  natural  length 
again,  into  mornings  and  evenings,  soft  and  swift 
as  the  passage  of  the  clouds.  And  the  country 
was  so  fresh  and  sweet,  and  all  the  world  so 
amusing  in  its  varied  humors.  Her  heart  came 
back  again  into  renewed  life,  with  a  little  thrill 
and  tremor  of  unconscious  yet  half-guilty  pleas- 
ure. She  could  not  be  churlish  enough  to  close 
herself  up  against  all  the  seductions  of  nature 
and  gentle  persuasions  of  her  youth. 

Killin  was  one  of  the  places  where  the  party 
had  arranged  to  stay,  or,  rather,  where  Mrs. 
Bellingham  had  arranged  to  stay.  To  have  one 
person  with  a  decided  will  and  taste,  and  all  the 
rest  obedient  in  natural  subjection  or  good-hu- 
mored ease,  is  the  grand  necessity  for  such  an 
expedition.  Mrs.  Bellingham  fulfilled  all  these 
requirements.  She  knew  what  she  herself  liked, 
and  was  very  well  disposed  to  make  other  peo- 
ple accept  that,  as  the  standard  of  beaut}'.  And 
luckily  Jean  had  been  on  Loch  Tay  before,  and 
had  arbitrarily  decided,  like  a  despot  of  intelli- 
gence, that  on  Loch  Tay  Killin  was  the  place  to 
stay.  She  sat  up  in  her  carriage  with  a  pleased 
importance  as  they  drove  in  through  the  homely 
cottages,  thatched,  and  tiled,  and  mossy,  through 
the  genial  odor  of  peat  in  the  blue  air,  past  the 
swift  flowing  of  the  brown  golden  stream  which 
winds  its  way  into  the  loch  round  that  island 
where  the  dead  Campbells  have  their  mansion 
as  lordly  as  Taymouth,  and  how  much  more  safe 
and  sweet.  Jean  sat  up  in  her  place  with  a 
pleased  relaxation  of  her  countenance  as  the  car- 
riage drove  round  to  the  inn-door  where  Steward, 
her  maid,  who  had  gone  by  the  coach  with  all 
the  boxes  of  the  party,  stood  in  attendance  be- 
hind the  smiling  landlord,  but  heading  the  home- 
ly waiters  and  chamber-maids.  Steward  knew 
her  place.  To  be  mistress  of  a  Highland  inn 
would  not  at  all  have  displeased  her;  but  she 
knew  very  well  that  she  was  of  a  different  and 
higher  order  of  being  from  those  smiling  High- 
land maids  with  their  doubtful  English,  and  the 
anxious  waiter  who  had  so  many  parties  to  look 
after,  and  lost  his  wits  now  and  then  when  the 
coach  was  crowded.  A  party  taking  so  many 
rooms,  and  not  illiberal  in  their  way,  though 
Mrs.  Bellingham  looked  sharply  after  the  bills, 
gave  importance  to  everybody  connected  with 
them. 

"  Yon  got  my  letter,  Mr.  MacGillivray  ?"'  said 
Mrs.  Bellingham. 

"Ay,  my  leddy;  oh,  ay,  my  leddy ;  and  I 
hope  ye'll  find  everything  to  your  satisfaction," 
said  the  landlord,  opening  the  door  with  anxious 
obsequiousness,  as  if  Jean  had  been  the  Queen 
herself,  Miss  Leslie  could  not  but  remark.  It 
was  a  pleasant  moment.  The  sun  was  declin- 
ing westward ;  the  roar  of  the  waterfall  above 
the  bridge  came  fitfully  upon  the  air;  the  rush 
of  the  nearer  stream  sounded  clear  and  close  at 
hand ;  the  cottage  children  ran  in  picturesque 
little  russet  groups  to  gaze  at  the  new-comers. 
On  the  other  hand,  Ben  Lawers,  clumsy  but 
grand,  heaved  upward  against  the  sky  and  cut 
its  arch  in  two.     The  trees  filled  in  all  the  crev- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


107 


ices  about,  and  in  the  distance  Glen  Dochart 
glimmered  far  away,  opening  up  between  the 
hills  a  golden  path  into  the  west. 

"Make  haste,  children,"  said  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham,  "for  we  will  have  to  dine  at  the  table- 
d'hote ;  and  that  I  know  by  experience  waits  for 
nobody,  and  a  very  funny  business  it  is.  But 
it's  a  great  pity  we're  a  month  too  early,  and 
you'll  get  no  grouse." 

"That  is  a  mistako  indeed,"  said  Aubrey; 
"  but,  after  all,  we  are  only  a  fortnight  too  early, 
and  the  time  may  come  when  we  shall  have  bet- 
ter luck." 

"And  oh,  darling  Margaret,"  said  Miss  Leslie, 
"I  have  had  such  a  beautiful  view!  I  am  so 
sorry,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  sorry,  I  am  that 
neither  you  nor  dear  Effie  would  take  my  seat!" 

It  had  been  a  most  successful  day,  with  no 
clang  or  bustle  of  railways,  but  only  the  horses' 
measured  trot ;  the  roll  of  the  wheels  ;  the  flash 
of  the  sunshiny  loch;  the  honest  Highland  sun- 
shine, sweet  as  heavenly  light  can  be,  but  never 
scorching,  only  kindly  warming,  cheering,  smil- 
ing, upon  the  wayfarer.  And  now  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  see  the  friendly  people  at  their  doors : 
the  Highland  maids,  happy  to  please  you,  with 
their  kind  voices  and  looks  of  friendly  interest; 
the  waiter,  bothered  to  death,  poor  man,  but 
anxious,  too,  that  you  should  eat  and  show  an 
appetite.  Nowhere  else  is  there  such  homely  in- 
terest in  the  chance  guest.  Perhaps  the  bill  is 
a  trifle  high  :  is  it  a  trifle  high  ?  Not  any  high- 
er than  in  England,  though  perhaps  just  a  little 
more  than  in  the  big,  inhuman  Swiss  caravansary 
where  all  the  Cockney  world  is  crowding.  There 
are  caravansaries  in  the  Highlands  too,  but  not 
at  Killin.  There,  still,  the  maids  smile  kindly, 
and  cannot  bide  that  you  should  not  be  happy ; 
and  the  waiter  (though  drawn  three  ways  at  the 
same  moment)  is  troubled  if  you  do  not  "enjoy 
your  dinner."  And  the  peat  smoke  rises  in 
aromatic  wreaths  into  the  clear  blue  air,  and 
the  river  flows  golden  in  the  sunshine,  but  above 
the  bridge  tumbles  in  foaming  cataracts ;  and 
broad  and  large,  with  a  homely  magnificence, 
the  loch  spreads  out  its  waters  under  the  sun  or 
moon. 

After  the  meal,  grandly  entitled  a  table-d'hote, 
to  which  our  party  sat  down  in  friendly  conjunc- 
tion with  a  stranger  pair,  whom  Mrs.  Bellingham 
was  very  condescending  to,  and  whom  it  was 
odd  not  to  know  intimately,  as  they  did  to  each 
other  all  the  honors  of  the  family  dinner,  Jean 
retired  to  the  most  comfortable  room,  where 
Steward  brought  her  writing  things,  and  her 
books  and  knitting.  "I  will  put  up  my  feet  a 
little,"  she  said,  "but  I  advise  the  rest  of  you  to 
go  out  for  a  walk.  You  should  never  lose  a  fine 
evening  in  the  Highlands,  Aubrey,  for  you  nev- 
er know  what  to-morrow  may  be.  I  know  the 
place  as  well  as  I  know  my  Bible.  Go  up  to 
the  bridge  and  look  at  the  water-fall,  for  it  is 
considered  very  fine;  and  there  is  a  man,  where 
the  boats  lie,  who  sells  Scotch  pearls ;  you  can 
tell  him  to  bring  them  up  to  show  us  after  you 
come  in  again.  But  go  out  and  take  a  walk 
first,  and  get  the  good  of  the  fine  evening.  I 
will  just  put  up  my  feet." 

"And,  dearest  Jean,  as  Aubrey  is  a  kind  of 
cousin— or  perhaps  it  is  a  kind  of  nephew — to 
darling  Margaret,  don't  you  think  I  may  stay 
with  you?  for  it  would  be  very  selfish  of  me", 


dear  Eflie,  and  dear  Margaret,  to  leave  dearest 
Aunt  Jean  alone." 

The  younger  people  strayed  out  without  wait- 
ing for  the  conclusion  of  the  controversy  which 
was  thus  opened  between  the  ladies;  for  Mrs. 
Bellingham  was  quite  able  to  dispense  with  her 
sister's  society,  though  kind  Miss  Grace,  with 
many  a  whisper  behind  her  back,  declared  that 
she  did  not  at  all  mind,  but  that  it  would  never 
do  to  leave  dear  Jean  alone.  They  went  out 
discussing  their  own  curious  relationships  with  a 
great  deal  of  natural  amusement;  for  there  was 
no  doubt  that  Effie  at  seventeen  and  a  half  was 
the  unquestionable  niece  of  Margaret,  who  had 
not  yet  arrived  at  her  eighteenth  birthday. 
"And  as  Miss  Leslie  is  my  aunt  Grace,  it  is  un- 
questionable that  Miss  Margaret  Leslie  must  be 
my  aunt  Margaret,  most  venerable  of  titles," 
said  Aubrey,  taking  off  his  hat  and  making  her 
a  reverential  bow.  He  protested  that  no  Chris- 
tian name  could  be  added  to  the  title  of  aunt 
which  could  produce  so  profound  an  impression 
of  age  and  awe.  Aunt  Grace  might  sound  skit- 
tish and  youthful,  and  Aunt  Jean  be  no  more 
than  matronly;  but  nothing  less  than  a  white- 
haired  grandmother  could  do  justice  (they  all 
allowed)  to  the  name  of  Aunt  Margaret.  Effie, 
who  was  a  great  novel -reader,  reckoned  upon 
her  fingers  how  many  there  were  to  be  found  in 
books. 

Thus  discussing,  they  went  lightly  along 
through  the  soft  Highland  evening  all  scented 
with  the  peat.  The  sky  was  still  blue  and  clear, 
but  in  the  village  street  it  was  almost  dark,  glim- 
mers of  the  never-extinguished  fires  shining  cheer- 
fully from  the  cottage-windows,  and  the  few  pas- 
sengers about  looking  at  each  other  with  pucker- 
ed eyelids,  "as  an  old  tailor  looks  at  the  eye  of 
his  needle,"  according  to  Dante.  Some  one  con- 
templating them  thus,  with  contracted  pupils  and 
projected  head,  attracted  the  notice  of  the  girls 
as  they  went  along,  in  a  little  pause  after  their 
laughter — some  one  with  a  fishing-basket  over 
his  shoulder — and  came  to  a  sudden  pause  be- 
fore them. 

"Randal  Burnside!"  Margaret  cried,  with  a 
little  start.  And  Randal  made  a  very  elaborate 
explanation  as  to  how  he  had  been  under  an  old 
engagement  to  come  here  to  fish,  and  how  much 
surprised  he  was  to  see  them  arriving  whom  he 
bad  parted  from  only  about  ten  days  before. 

"  I  could  not  believe  my  eyes,"  he  said. 

Why  should  not  he  believe  his  eyes?  Mrs. 
Bellingham,  when  told  of  this  explanation,  de- 
clared indignantly  that  she  had  herself  told  him 
of  her  intention  to  stay  a  few  days  at  Killin. 

"What  should  he  be  surprised  at?"  she  ask- 
ed ;  but  this  was  a  question  to  which  nobody 
could  reply. 

He  turned  with  them,  as  was  natural,  and 
they  all  continued  their  walk  together.  There 
were  no  lamps  nor  other  worldly  vulgarities  in 
Killin  ;  there  was  no  railway  even,  in  those  days, 
invading  the  silence  of  the  hills — nothing  but  the 
cottages,  low,  homely  places,  in  pleasant  tones 
of  gray,  and  red,  and  brown,  with  soft  blue  pen- 
nons of  the  aromatic  peat-reek  floating  over  them. 
and  clouds  of  white  convolvulus  threaded  up  and 
down  their  homely  walls — and  the  big  shadows 
of  the  hills  forming  the  background,  or,  when  you 
reached  higher  ground,  the  silver  brightness  of 
the  loch.     And  how  quiet  it  was!  the  distant 


10S 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


roar  of  the  wild  water  only  heightening,  as  with 
a  great  abstract  voice  of  nature,  taking  no  note 
of  humanity,  the  tranquillity  and  softened  dim- 
ness of  the  village.  The  little  group  took  in  the 
stranger  and  increased  itself,  then  unconsciously 
sundered  and  formed  into  two  and  two. 

Was  it  not  the  merest  accident  that  the  two 
in  advance  were  merry  Effie  and  the  gay  Eng- 
lishman, and  the  two  behind  ltandal  and  Mar- 
garet? Nothing  could  have  been  more  natural. 
But  Margaret's  hesitating  laughter  was  quench- 
ed henceforward.  She  was  half  ashamed  of  it, 
as  not  befitting  her  orphanhood  and  her  black 
dress :  and  then  she  could  not  but  think  of  the 
other  evening,  not  so  very  long  ago,  when  Ran- 
dal's appearance  had  startled  her  before :  the 
time  when  he  had  not  taken  any  notice,  not  even 
taken  off  his  hat.  Margaret  had  never  got  over 
the  humiliation  of  that  greeting  withheld.  He 
had  seen  her,  for  she  had  heard  him  say  so :  but 
then  and  there,  she  felt,  Randal  must  have  lost 
his  respect  for  her — Randal,  who  had  known  her 
all  her  life.  Even  in  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
ment this  had  given  Margaret  a  wound ;  and  she 
had  not  got  over  it,  though  that  evening  had  so 
many  recollections  that  were  painful  to  her.  Two 
or  three  times  now  in  the  soft  gloom,  as  they 
walked  along  side  by  side,  she  raised  her  head 
and  gave  him  a  furtive,  timid  glance,  with  the 
words  on  her  lips,  "Why  did  you  take  no  no- 
tice that  night?"  But  though  her  mind  was  full 
of  it,  she  had  not  the  courage  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion. Effie  and  Aubrey  went  on  before,  their 
voices  sounding  softly  through  the  night;  but 
Randal  did  not  say  very  much,  and  Margaret 
nothing  at  all.  The  spell  of  the  momentary 
gayety  was  broken.  A  little  moisture  even  stole 
into  her  eyes  under  cover  of  the  night ;  and  yet 
she  was  not  unhappy,  if  only  she  could  have  had 
the  courage  to  ask  why  it  was  that  he  "  took  no 
notice."  They  went  as  far  as  the  bridge  and 
stood  there,  looking  at  the  torrent  as  it  foamed 
down,  leaping  and  dashing  in  white  clouds  over 
the  rocks. 

Margaret  had  never  seen  such  a  scene ;  even 
the  brawling  cataracts  of  the  Tummel  and  Gar- 
ry, which  had  been  her  first  experience  of  the 
kind,  were  not  like  this.  In  the  midst  of  the 
wild  commotion  a  knot  of  stately  firs  held  them- 
selves aloof,  intrenched  in  a  citadel  of  rock  amidst 
all  the  rage  of  the  torrents,  the  wild  water  raging 
on  every  side,  but  the  tree-island,  coldly  proud, 
scarcely  owning,  by  a  quiver  of  its  leaflets,  the 
influence  of  so  much  passion  roused.  Randal 
said  something  to  her  as  he  stood  by  her,  but 
she  could  not  hear  a  syllable.  She  looked  up  at 
him  and  shook  her  head,  and  he  smiled.  Some- 
how he  did  not  look  (though  it  was  so  dark  that 
6he  could  scarcely  see)  as  if  he  had  lost  his  re- 
spect for  her,  after  all. 

"What  a  row,"  said  Aubrey,  as  they  came 
away,  "for  such  a  cupful  of  water!  If  it  had 
been  Niagara,  there  might  have  been  some  ex- 
cuse." 

"That  is  just  like  the  Highlands,"  said  Ran- 
dal, with  that  partial  offence  which  always  moves 
a  Scotsman  when  it  is  suggested  by  any  imper- 
tinent stranger  that  his  country  is  not  the  equal 
in  every  respect  of  every  other  country  under  the 
sun.  "It  is  not  Niagara,  and  Ben  Lawers  is 
not  Mont  Blanc;  but  they  impose  upon  us  all 
the  same." 


"  Hush  !"  said  Margaret ;  "don't  talk;  one  is 
enough."  What  she  said  was  not  very  intelligi- 
ble, but,  indeed,  the  one  voice  was  enough  in  the 
air.  It  seemed  to  her  to  declaim  some  great 
poem,  some  wild  chant,  like  a  sublime  Ossian. 
The  others  went  chattering  on  before,  delighted 
with  themselves  and  their  jokes.  And  when  the 
rush  of  the  wild  stream  had  sunk  into  a  murmur, 
Margaret  herself  began  again  to  wonder.  ' '  Why 
did  he  take  no  notice  that  night?" 

Next  day.  Randal  joined  them  quite  early.  It 
was  not  a  good  day  for  fishing,  he  said.  It  was 
too  bright.  Besides,  if  they  were  only  going  to 
stay  a  day  or  two,  he  could  make  up  for  his  idle- 
ness afterward.  He  had  got  a  boat  ready,  and 
was  bent  on  taking  the  ladies  to  Einlarig,  and 
afterward  upon  the  loch. 

"  Of  course,  we  are  going  to  Einlarig,  Ran- 
dal," said  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "Do  you  think  I 
have  never  been  here  before  ?  Good-morning, 
Duncan  Macgregor.  Have  you  any  of  your 
pearls  to-day  ?  Oh  yes !  I  should  like  to  look 
at  them.  The  little  ones  are  beautiful,  but  the 
big  ones  are  too  milky.  I  like  the  small  size 
best.  You  can  come  up  and  see  us  after  dinner 
to-night,  and  bring  them  with  you.  Duncan 
and  I  are  old  friends.  Many  a  pearl  I  have  got 
from  him,  and  had  them  set  afterward  at  San- 
derson's, in  Princes  Street.  I  invented  the  set- 
ting myself,  and  it  was  very  much  admired — 
just  a  gold  thread  twisted  round  them.  Marga- 
ret, you  don't  wear  any  rings.  I  must  have  one 
made  for  you.  Duncan  Macgregor  had  much 
better  come  with  us,  Randal.  I  have  no  confi- 
dence in  gentlemen  rowers.  You  will  go  off 
with  the  girls  as  soon  as  we  get  to  Einlarig,  and 
then  where  shall  we  be  ?"' 

"  You  will  have  your  devoted  nephew,  Aunt 
Jean.  My  aunts  are  the  aim  and  object  of  my 
life.  I  never  think  of  anything  else,  sleeping  or 
waking.  How  can  you  talk  of  being  left  alone 
so  long  as  you  have  me  ?" 

"I  prefer  Duncan  Macgregor,"  said  Aunt 
Jean  ;  "and  as  for  your  aunts,  as  you  call  them, 
you  have  only  one.  And  I  don't  want  to  see 
you  pushed  out  of  your  place  by  that  lad,  Ran- 
dal Burnside,"  she  added,  in  a  whisper.  "Just 
you  keep  your  eyes  upon  him,  Aubrey.  I  can't 
think  what  business  he  has  here." 

Mrs.  Bellingham's  prophecy  was  so  far  ful- 
filled that  the  young  men  and  the  girls  did  some- 
how, as  is  their  use  and  wont,  manage  to  sepa- 
rate themselves  from  their  elder  companions, 
one  of  whom,  at  least,  had  every  desire  to  fur- 
ther this  separation.  It  was  Randal  who  was 
the  cicerone  of  the  party,  and  who  led  them 
through  the  winding  path  to  that  secluded,  shel- 
tered palace  of  peace  where  the  dead  Campbells 
rest.  They  were  not  thinking  much  about  the 
Campbells.  Who,  indeed,  thinks  of  the  silent 
occupants,  be  they  Pharaohs,  be  they  Highland 
caterans,  of  those  still  dwellings  of  the  dead  ? 
The  Campbells  lie  in  lordly  guardianship  of 
their  loch  and  their  trees,  with  their  clan  within 
call,  and  their  castle  scarcely  out  of  hearing,  and 
all  kinds  of  Highland  bravery — honeysuckles  and 
wild  roses  in  the  summer,  barberries  and  rowans 
in  the  autumn,  flaunting  upon  the  half- ruined 
wall  that  surrounds  their  tomb. 

The  young  people  strayed  that  way — two  of 
them  full  of  talk  and  laughter,  two  of  them  quiet 
enough.     Why  it  was  that  Effie  and  Aubrey  fell 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


100 


together  it  would  be  difficult  (yet  not  very  diffi- 
cult) to  say ;  but  the  reason  why  Margaret 
stayed  her  steps  for  those  of  Randal  was  easy 
enough.  She  wanted,  constantly  wanted,  to  ask 
him  why  he  took  no  notioe  that  night.  For  this 
reason  she  lingered  while  the  others  went  on, 
looking  at  him  now  and  then  with  a  shy,  eager 
look,  which  at  once  puzzled  the  young  man,  and 
filled  his  heart  with  a  dangerous  interest.  She 
wanted  to  ask  him  something — what  was  it  she 
wanted  to  ask  him?  Randal  was  on  his  guard, 
lie  felt.  He  had  been  warned  effectually  enough. 
Margaret  was  not  for  him.  Even  if  he  had 
wanted  her  (which  he  did  not,  he  said  to  him- 
self with  a  little  indignation),  was  not  he  fore- 
stalled ?  Had  not  her  heart  been  caught  in  its 
first  flight?  He  might  be  sorry,  but  that  did 
not  matter  much  :  the  deed  was  done.  And  he 
was  fully  warned,  completely  forestalled,  even  if 
he  had  wished  for  anything  else.  But  what  was 
it  she  wanted  to  say  ?  Probably,  in  the  inno- 
cence of  her  heart,  something  about  that  fellow, 
for  whom,  poor  thing,  she  must  fancy — she  who 
knew  nobody,  because  she  loved  him — that  every 
one  cared. 

They  came  at  last  to  a  little  sheltered  glade 
close  to  the  little  river,  with  its  golden  brown 
water.  There  was  a  beautiful  barberry  growing 
in  a  comer,  which  Margaret  had  caught  sight 
of.  She  wanted  a  branch  of  it  to  put  in  her 
hat,  she  said  —  until  she  remembered  that  her 
hat  was  covered  with  crape.  But  Randal  was 
cutting  the  scarlet  grapes  before  that  evident  in- 
congruity had  occurred  to  her.  She  sat  alone 
upon  a  bit  of  the  broken  wall  close  by,  among 
ferns  and  ivy,  and  watched  him. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  sorry  I  have  given 
you  the  trouble.  I  forgot  that  it  was  crape  I 
was  wearing.  It  is  very  strange  that  one  should 
ever  be  able  to  forget." 

"  But  you  are — by  moments." 

"Yes;  it  shows  how  little  one  knows.  I 
thought  I  would  die." 

"  But  that  could  not  be,"  said  Randal,  kindly. 
"  The  world  would  come  to  an  end  very  quickly 
if  grief  killed ;  but  it  does  not,  even  the  most 
terrible." 

"And  you  will  think  mine  was  not  like  that," 
said  Margaret.  "  But  I  do  not  forget  him  !  oh, 
I  do  not  forget  him !  only — I  do  not  know  how 
it  is — my  mind  will  not  keep  to  one  thing.  I 
suppose,"  she  said,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "it  is  be- 
cause I  have  not  very  much  mind  at  all." 

"  Nay,  you  accuse  yourself  unjustly,"  he  said, 
with  a  half  smile;  "after  the  shock  of  a  great 
event,  a  great  trouble,  there  comes  a  time  of 
quiet — " 

"Oh!"  she  said,  finding  herself,  by  no  doing 
of  hers,  brought  to  the  point  she  desired,  and 
turning  to  him  with  a  sudden  start,  "Randal,  I 
would  like  to  tell  you  something.  I  thought  I 
should  have  told  them  all  that  night  when  I 
came  in,  but  I  had  not  the  courage." 

"What  is  it?"  Randal  threw  a  twig  of  his 
barberries  into  the  stream  and  watched  it  carried 
along,  tossing  on  the  swift  current.  She  was 
going  to  speak  to  him  of  her  love,  the  poor  child ; 
and  his  heart  revolted  against  such  a  confidence. 
He  could  not  look  at  her.  Girls  receive  the  con- 
fidences of  men  with  interest,  but  it  is  very  sel- 
dom indeed  that  a  young  man  plays  the  same 
part  to  a  girl. 


"  When  I  came  in  that  night  you  all  thought 
my  heart  was  breaking  because  I  was  going 
away,  and  I  did  not  dare  to  say  otherwise.  But 
oh,  Randal!  it  was  not  that!" 

"  I  understand. "  He  threw  in  another  branch 
of  the  barberries  and  watched  it  intently,  turn- 
ing his  head  away  from  her.  "  It  was  another 
kind  of  parting  that  made  you  cry ;  you  were 
thinking  of — " 

"Oh,  I  was  thinking — how  glad,  how  glad  I 
would  be  just  to  get  away,  only  to  get  away  !" 

"Margaret!"  he  turned  round  and  looked  at 
her  quickly  now.  She  was  not  embarrassed  nor 
blushing,  as  if  the  words  could  bear  some  hap- 
pier meaning,  but  quite  pale  and  serious,  looking 
at  the  water  as  he  had  been  doing.  Though  he 
had  known  her  all  her  life,  he  had  of  late  given 
up  calling  her  by  her  Christian  name.  It  was 
the  surprise  that  forced  it  from  his  lips. 

"It  sounds  like  wickedness,"  she  said,  fer- 
vently. "  I  can  see  that,  but  I  do  not  mean  any 
ill.  I  could  not  help  it;  things  had  been  so 
strange.  How  could  I  help  trembling  and  cry- 
ing? All  had  gone  wrong,  some  way.  And 
oh,  I  was  glad,  so  glad  to  get  away,  to  be  free ! 
But  if  I  had  said  so  you  would  all  have  thought 
me —  I  don't  know  what  you  would  have  thought 
me.  But  it  came  into  my  head  that  perhaps 
you  guessed  my  true  meaning,  and  thought  it 
was  a  lie  I  was  telling,  and  had  no  more  respect 
for  me." 

"Respect  for  you!  That  is  not  the  word  I 
would  have  used,  Margaret.  I  have  always — 
liked  you — taken  an  interest  in  you  ever  since 
you  were  a  little  baby.  How  could  I  lose  what 
you  call  respect?" 

"But  you  looked  like  it,  Randal.  Why  did 
you  pass  me  in  the  gloaming  and  never  say  a 
word,  nor  even  nod  your  head,  or  take  off  your 
hat  ?" 

"Margaret!"  he  cried,  in  great  confusion,  "I 
— I  thought  you  did  not  want  to  be  recognized. 
I — thought  you  would  like  to  think  I  had  not 
seen  you — I  thought — " 

"How  could  I  do  that?"  said  Margaret,  seri- 
ously; "for  that  could  not  have  been  true.  I 
have  wondered  ever  since  if  you  thought  me — a 
— a — bad  girl,  Randal  ?  Oh !  I  think  I  have  no 
heart !  I  can  laugh,  though  papa  has  only  been 
gone  a  month.  I — almost — forget  sometimes 
that  I  am  so  unhappy ;  but  I  am  not  a  bad  girl, 
Randal.  You  might  always  take  off  your  hat 
to  me.  You  need  not  think  shame  to  speak  to 
me — " 

"Margaret,  for  Heaven's  sake!  who  could 
have  imagined  you  would  take  it  so?  I  thought 
you  had  some  one  with  you  whom  you  cared 
for  more  than  any  one  else,  and  that  you  would 
rather  I  took  no  notice.  I  did  not  think  I  had 
any  right  to  interfere  between  him  and  you." 

"No,"  said  Margaret,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "I 
suppose  nobody  could  do  that;"  and  after  a 
pause  she  resumed,  half  smiling  —  "But  you 
should  not  look  as  if  you  thought  shame  of  your 
friends,  Randal ;  you  should  take  off  your  hat, 
even  when  a  girl  is  not  very  wise.  1  thought 
you  had  no  respect  for  me  after  that  night." 

Margaret  pronounced  the  word  icise  as  if  it 
had  been  written  wice,  which  the  reader  who  is 
Scotch  will  be  aware  is  a  word  with  a  quite  dis- 
tinct meaning  of  its  own  ;  a  girl  who  is  not  wise 
means  a  girl  who  is  wildly  silly,  without  any 


110 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


gense — perhaps  with  not  all  her  wits  about  her. 
What  would  Sir  Ludovic  have  thought  had  he 
heard  a  speech  so  outrageously  Scotch  from  his 
little  Peggy?  How  he  would  have  smiled,  how 
he  would  have  scolded!  Randal  remembered 
the  old  man's  amused  reproofs ;  but  his  heart 
was  too  much  troubled  to  permit  him  to  smile. 
And  the  inference  that  lay  in  Margaret's  words 
was  more  than  his  intelligence  could  fathom. 
He  was  thrown  into  the  wildest  commotion  of 
curiosity,  anxiety,  and  wonder.  Was  it  possible 
that  there  was  no  love,  after  all,  between  her  and 
Rob  Glen?  or  what  did  her  joy  in  escaping,  her 
sigh  at  the  thought  that  no  one  could  interfere, 
mean  ?  He  answered  her  at  last  in  a  strain 
quite  confused  and  wide  of  the  purpose,  like  a 
man  in  a  dream. 

"If  I  should  ever  be  able  to  do  anything  for 
you,  to  be  of  any  use  to  you,  Margaret,  will  you 
send  for  me  ?  will  you  let  me  know  ?  Whatever 
it  may  be,  and  wherever  I  may  be,"  he  cried,  in 
his  confusion,  "if  you  ever  tell  me  you  want  me, 
I  will  come  to  you  if  I  am  at  the  end  of  the 
world!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  faint  surprise,  yet 
gratitude.  "Yes,  Randal,"  she  said;  "now  I 
know  that  you  have  not  lost  your  respect  for  me. 
But  how  should  I  ever  want  anything?"  she  add- 
ed, with  a  smile  ;  "  there  is  Jean  always  to  take 
care  of  me,  you  know." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Mrs.  Bellingham  did  not  stay  long  at  Killin. 
How  it  came  about  could  never  be  discovered ; 
but  wherever  the  party  went,  in  whatsoever  ad- 
mirable order  they  set  out,  it  was  discovered  on 
their  return  that  Aubrey  was  somehow  at  the 
side,  not  of  Margaret,  but  of  Effie  Leslie.  His 
aunt  took  him  severely  to  task  when  this  dere- 
liction from  all  the  rules  of  duty  had  been  made 
evident  by  the  experience  of  several  successive 
days.  Aubrey  did  not  deny  or  defy  his  aunt's 
lawful  authority.  "It  is  all  that  fellow,"  he 
said,  "continually  poking  in  before  me,  wher- 
ever we  go,  with  his  Margaret,  Margaret!  as  if 
she  belonged  to  him.  I  hate  these  men  who 
have  known  a  nice  girl  from  the  time  she  was 
that  high.     They  are  always  in  the  way." 

"And  do  you  really  allow  yourself  to  be  put 
off  your  plans  so  easily — you,  Aubrey,  a  man  of 
the  world  ?  If  I  were  you,  1  would  soon  let  Mr. 
Randal  Barnside  find  his  proper  place.  Let  him 
take  care  of  Effie.  Effie  would  do  for  him  very 
well.  She  is  the  second  daughter,  and  they  are 
not  very  rich,  and  her  sister  has  made  but  a 
poorish  sort  of  marriage.  Effie  might  do  worse 
than  put  up  with  Randal  Burnside.  It  would 
be  doing  them  all  a  good  turn  if  you  would  be 
firm,  Aubrey,  and  insist  on  doing  what  we  all 
wish." 

"Surely,"  said  Aubrey,  "nothing  can  be 
more  easy.  I  hope  I  know  as  well  as  anybody 
how  to  keep  a  presuming  fellow  in  his  right 
place."  But,  comforting  as  this  assurance  was, 
the  very  same  thing  happened  the  next  day,  and 
Mrs.  Bellingham  was  not  only  angry,  but  dis- 
turbed by  it.  She  called  Aubrey  into  her  room 
at  quite  a  late  hour,  when  she  was  sitting  in  all 
the  sanctity  of  her  dressing-gown.      Perhaps 


their  tempers  were  a  little  ^disturbed  by  the  fact 
that  they  were  both  chilly — he  with  his  walk  by 
the  side  of  the  loch  to  finish  a  cigar,  she  in  the 
before  -  mentioned  dressing-gown,  which,  being 
but  muslin,  was  a  little  too  light  for  the  latitude 
of  Killin. 

"The  same  thing  over  again,  Aubrey,"  she 
said;  "always  that  little  flirt  of  an  Effie.  I  de- 
clare I  never  see  you  pay  the  slightest  attention 
to  Margaret ;  and  when  you  know  how  much 
all  your  friends  wish  you  to  settle — " 

"All  right,  Aunt  Jean,"  said  Aubrey,  with  a 
tone  of  injury.  "  It  is  all  those  girls  that  will 
derange  the  most  careful  calculations.  They 
are  both  of  a  height,  they  are  both  all  black  ;  it 
is  only  when  you  hear  their  voices  that  you  can 
tell  which  is  which  :  and  if  one  will  go  off  in  one 
direction  while  you  have  settled  all  your  plans 
for  the  other — " 

"Ah,  Aubrey,  I  am  afraid  it  is  just  the  old 
story,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham,  shaking  her  head  ; 
"you  like  the  wrong  one  the  best." 

"That  is  a  trifle,"  said  the  dutiful  nephew; 
"we  were  not  born  to  follow  our  inclinations. 
The  wrong  always  suits  the  best,  that  goes  with- 
out saying ;  but  I  hope  I  am  not  quite  a  fool, 
and  I  was  not  born  yesterday.  Your  Effie  may 
be  all  very  well  to  chatter  with,  but  what  should 
I  do  with  her?  I  should  not  choose  to  starve 
for  her  sake,  nor  I  don't  suppose  she  would  for 
mine.  It  is  Margaret  for  my  money  ;  or  per- 
haps the  other  way  would  be  more  like  the  fact : 
it  is  her  money  for  me.  But  what  can  a  fellow 
do  with  the  best  intentions,  if  the  other  three 
make  a  point  of  thwarting  him  ?  The  only 
thing  to  be  done  is  this :  send  the  little  one 
home,  and  turn  that  other  man  about  his  busi- 
ness :  when  there  are  only  two  of  us,  we  are 
bound  to  be  civil  to  each  other,"  Aubrey  said, 
with  fine  ease,  turning  over  the  bottles  on  his 
aunt's  toilet-table.  Mrs.  Bellingham  was  struck 
by  the  thorough-going  honesty  of  this  suggestion. 

"  Well,  that  sounds  very  fair,  Aubrey,"  she 
said.  "I  would  not  expect  you  to  say  more. 
And,  to  be  sure,  when  a  girl  makes  a  dead  set  at 
you,  it  is  very  difficult  for  a  young  man  to  keep 
quite  clear.  We  must  not  do  anything  violent, 
you  know,  and  it  makes  me  much  more  com- 
fortable to  hear  you  speak  so  sensibly.  Randal 
Burnside,  of  course,  will  be  left  behind  here,  and 
Effie  can  go  home  from  Stirling  or  Glasgow. 
And  as  we  leave  in  two  days,  there  will  be  no 
great  harm  done.  But  after  that,  my  dear  boy, 
I  do  hope  you  will  not  lose  your  time." 

"Trust'me  for  that!"  he  said.  "Do  you 
really  use  such  an  antediluvian  cosmetic  as  Kaly- 
dor,  Aunt  Jean — you  whom  I  always  believed  to 
be  in  advance  of  the  age  ?  Creme  de  th€  is  a 
great  deal  better.  Without  it  I  could  never' 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  face  the  rude  winds 
of  the  North.  Have  a  little  of  mine  and  try  ;  I 
am  sure  you  will  never  use  the  other  again." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Aubrey  ;  but  I  am  very  well 
satisfied  with  my  own,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham, 
who  did  not  choose  that  anything  belonging  to 
her  should  be  called  antediluvian.  "It  is  more 
refreshing  than  anything  when  one  has  been  a 
long  time  in  the  air.  Then  that  is  settled,  and 
I  shall  not  have  to  speak  of  it  again,  I  hope. 
But  if  I  were  you — a  university  man  and  a  club 
man  —  I  would  show  that  I  was  more  than  a 
match  for  Randal  Burnside,  who  never  was  at 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


Ill 


anything  but  a  Scotch  college,  and  can't  belong 
to  anything  better  than  one  of  those  places  in 
Princes  Street.  I  would  not  allow  myself  to  be 
put  out  of  my  way  by  a  provincial.  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  give  in  like  that,  if  I  was  such  a 
young  man  as  you." 

Aubrey  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  offered 
no  further  defence  ;  and  the  remaining  two  days 
were  passed  happily  enough,  Margaret  and  Ran- 
dal remaining  upon  terms  of  confidential  intima- 
cy, without  any  word  on  either  side  to  make  the 
situation  more  plain.  She  felt  that  she  had  com- 
mitted her  secret  to  his  trust,  and  was  partially 
supported  in  consequence  in  the  bearing  of  it — 
and  encouraged  to  forget  it,  which  she  did  ac- 
cordingly with  a  secret  ease  and  relief  beyond  all 
words — while  he,  too,  felt  that  something  had 
been  confided  to  him,  something  far  more  serious 
than  she  seemed  to  be  aware  of;  and  yet  did 
not  know  what  it  was.  Thus,  while  she  was  per- 
fectly at  her  ease  with  him,  Randal  was  not  so 
happy.  He  could  not  ask  her  a  question,  could 
not  even  let  her  see  that  he  remembered  the  half- 
involuntary  confidence,  yet  felt  the  most  eager 
desire  to  know  fully  what  it  was  which  had  been 
confided  to  him.  How  could  he  help  her,  how 
could  he  be  of  use  to  her  if  he  did  not  know? 
This  pleasant  fiction  of  being  "of  use,"  and  the 
eager  prayer  he  had  made  to  her  to  call  him 
whenever  and  wherever  she  wanted  him,  was  it 
not  the  natural  protest  of  honest  affection  against 
the  premature  bond  which  had  forestalled  itself, 
which  had  no  right  to  have  come  in  the  way  of 
the  real  hero?  He  did  not  himself  know  that 
this  was  the  origin  of  his  anxiety  about  Marga- 
ret, his  strong  wish  "to  be  of  use."  How  could 
he  be  of  use?  how  interfere  between  the  girl 
and  her  lover — he  whose  only  possible  stand- 
ing-ground by  Margaret's  side  would  be  that  of 
a  lover  too  ? 

But  Randal,  though  he  was  very  clear-sighted 
in  general,  had  but  a  confused  vision  of  things 
relating  to  himself,  and  deluded  himself  with  the 
idea  that  he  might  "be  of  use,"  might  help  her, 
and  do  a  great  deal  for  her — if  he  only  knew! 
And  he  did  know  that  some  kind  of  tie  exist- 
ed between  her  and  Rob  Glen,  but  no  more. 
Whether  it  was  wholly  clandestine,  as  it  ap- 
peared, whether  "  the  fellow  "  had  secured  her  to 
himself  under  any  vow  of  secrecy,  whether  any- 
body belonging  to  her  knew,  or  suspected,  Ran- 
dal could  not  tell.  And  the  frankness  with 
which  she  had  admitted  himself  to  some  sort  of 
participation  in  the  mystery  made  it  more  con- 
fusing ami  bewildering  still.  He  could  not  put 
any  question  to  her  on  the  subject,  but  shrank 
from  the  very  thought  of  such  an  interrogation 
with  a  mixture  of  pain  and  shame,  feeling  his 
own  delicacy  wounded.  That  Margaret  should 
have  a  secret  at  all  was  intolerable.  He  could 
not  bear  to  be  her  confidant,  to  hear  her  ac- 
knowledge anything  that  marred  the  simple  ideal 
of  her  maidenhood ;  and  yet  how  was  he  "  to  be 
of  use,"  if  he  did  not  know  ? 

She,  for  her  part,  was  greatly  relieved  by  the 
little  snatch  of  conversation  which  had  conveyed 
so  much.  He  had  not  lost  his  respect  for  her. 
He  did  not  "think  shame"  of  her.  This  was 
very  comforting  to  Margaret.  She  had  made  it 
all  quite  clear,  she  thought,  how  things  had  gone 
wrong,  and  how  it  was  a  relief  more  than  a  sor- 
row to  leave  her  home ;  and  now  she  could  be 
S 


quite  at  her  ease  with  Randal,  who  knew.  Hav- 
ing thus  spoken  of  it,  too,  made  the  burden  of  it 
very  much  lighter.  The  thing  itself  was  over 
for  the  present ;  and  it  must  be  a  long  time,  a 
very  long  time,  before  she  would  be  forced  to  re- 
turn to  that  matter.  Perhaps,  some  time  or  oth- 
er, she  might  be  forced  to  return  to  it ;  but  not 
for  such  a  long,  long  time. 

Thus  all  seemed  easy  for  the  moment,  and 
Margaret  thrust  her  foolishness  behind  her,  and 
managed  to  forget.  They  had  two  more  cheer- 
ful days.  They  took  long  walks  into  Glen 
Dochart,  and  went  out  on  the  loch  in  the  even- 
ings ;  and  Effie  sang,  who  had  a  pretty  voice 
and  had  been  taught ;  whereas  Margaret  had  a 
pretty  voice,  but  had  not  been  taught,  and  was 
fired  with  great  ambition.  And  Aubrey  took 
upon  him  to  make  researches  into  the  crock- 
ery-ware in  the  cottages,  by  way  of  looking  for 
old  china,  of  which,  he  assured  them,  he  often 
"picked  up"  interesting  "bits,"  at  next  to  no 
price  at  all.  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bellingham 
Court.  It  did  not  answer,  however,  in  Perth- 
shire, and  Randal  and  the  two  girls  being  Scotch, 
had  to  interfere  to  rescue  him  from  Janet  Camp- 
bell, at  the  post-office,  who  thought  nothing  less 
than  that  the  man  was  mad,  and  intended  to 
break  her  "pigs,"  which  is  the  genuine  name  of 
crockery  in  Scotland. 

All  these  things  amused  them  mightily,  and 
filled  up  the  days,  which  were  not  invariably 
fine,  but  checkered  by  showers  and  even  storms 
— which  latter  amused  the  party  as  much  as  any- 
thing, since  there  was  a  perpetual  necessity  for 
consultations  of  all  kinds,  and  for  pilgrimages  in 
twos  and  threes  to  the  window,  and  to  the  door, 
to  see  if  it  was  going  to  be  fine.  During  all  this 
time  Mrs.  Bellingham  persistently  labored  to 
control  fate,  and  to  pair  her  young  people  ac- 
cording to  her  previous  determination.  That 
Randal  and  Effie  should  have  taken  to  each  oth- 
er would  have  been  a  perfectly  reasonable  and 
suitable  arrangement,  and  Jean  felt  that  she 
could  meet  her  brother  and  his  wife  with  a 
pleasant  sense  of  triumph,  had  she  been  the 
means  under  Providence  of  arranging  so  very 
suitable  a  match.  He  was  a  very  pleasant  young 
man,  well  educated,  sufficiently  well-born,  with 
a  little  money  and  a  good  profession  —  what 
could  a  girl's  parents  ask  for  more?  But  it  is 
inconceivable  how  blind  such  creatures  are,  how 
little  disposed  to  see  what  is  best  for  them. 
With  all  the  pains  that  she  took  to  prevent  it, 
the  wrong  two  were  always  finding  themselves 
in  each  other's  way. 

And  perhaps  it  helped  this  result  that  Miss 
Leslie,  all  unconsciously,  and  in  the  finest  spirit 
of  self-sacrifice,  did  everything  she  could  to 
thwart  her  sister,  and  to  throw  the  wrong  per- 
son in  the  way.  It  went  so  to  her  heart  to  see 
Margaret  smiling,  as  she  talked  to  Randal,  that 
she  walked  all  the  way  home  from  the  bridge  by 
herself,  though  it  was  getting  dark,  and  she  was 
nervous  to  leave  the  two  to  themselves.  "They 
will  like  their  own  company  better  than  mine," 
Miss  Leslie  said  to  herself.  And  when  Jean 
asked  sharply  what  had  become  of  Aubrey. 
Grace  quaked,  but  did  not  reply  that  she  had 
seen  him  taking  Effie  down  the  river  in  the 
gleam  of  compunctious  brightness,  after  the  af- 
ternoon's rain. 

"Dear  Jean,"  she  said,  "you  must  not  be 


112 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


anxious.  I  am  sure  he  will  be  back  directly, 
almost  directly." 

"Anxious!"  cried  Mrs.  Bellingham.  It  was 
hard  upon  so  sensible  a  woman  to  have  to  deal 
with  persons  so  entirely  unreasonable.  Then 
Randal  let  fall  various  intimations  that  he  had  a 
great  fancy  for  seeing  Loch  Katrine  again. 

"The  fishing  here  is  not  so  good  as  I  expect- 
ed," he  said.     "  I  think  I  shall  go  farther  west. 

"I  would  not  do  that  if  I  were  you,"  Mrs. 
Bellingham  said,  with  a  very  serious  face.  "I 
would  not  be  so  long  away  from  your  good  fa- 
ther and  mother.  Of  course  you  will  be  going 
somewhere  to  shoot  after  the  12th.  So  is  Au- 
brey. Ladies  have  not  much  chance  in  com- 
parison with  the  grouse.  And,  do  you  know,  I 
thought  them  very  much  failed,  both  of  them. 
They  are  getting  old  people,  Randal.  I  am  sure 
you  are  a  good  son,  and  would  do  anything  you 
can  to  please  them ;  and  I  could  see  that  your 
good  mother  did  not  like  you  to  come  away  for 
the  fishing,  though  she  would  not  say  anything. 
As  for  Loch  Katrine,  I  don't  think  it  all  likely 
that  we  shall  be  able  to  make  it  out." 

Randal  was  at  no  loss  to  understand  what  this 
meant.  He  smiled  to  himself  to  think  how  mis- 
taken she  was,  and  how  little  it  really  matter- 
ed who  went  or  stayed,  so  far  as  Margaret  was 
concerned ;  but,  after  all,  why  should  he  follow 
Margaret?  why  should  he  run  the  risk  of  mak- 
ing himself  hate  Rob  Glen,  and  wonder  at  his 
"luck"  more  than  he  did  now?  However,  he 
said  to  himself,  there  ought  not  to  be  any  dan- 
ger of  that.  He  did  not  think  there  was  any 
danger.  What  danger  could  there  be  when 
there  was  a  clear  understanding  that  some  one 
else  was  master  of  the  field  ?  But  still,  he  could 
not  suppose  that  the  moment  of  fate,  the  tragi- 
cal moment  at  which  he  could  be  of  use  to  Mar- 
garet, was  coming  now.  And  why  should  he 
insist  upon  going  where  he  was  not  wanted? 
So  he  yielded  and  sighed,  and  took  his  dismis- 
sal, though  both  the  girls  protested. 

"Oh,  why  will  you  go  and  spoil  the  party?" 
cried  Effie. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham,  "I  am 
afraid  there  will  not  be  much  more  of  the  party, 
for  your  papa  is  going  to  meet  us  in  Glasgow  to 
take  you  home." 

This  threw  a  cloud  over  poor  little  Effie,  who 
went  to  her  own  room  in  tears.  Was  it  over, 
then,  this  beautiful  holiday  ?  Margaret  said 
good-bye  to  Randal  with  a  cloudy  look  between 
smiles  and  tears. 

"You  will  never  pass  me  by  again  as  if  I  was 
not  good  enough  to  be  spoken  to  ?"  she  said, 
with  a  little  broken  laugh ;  and  he  once  more 
hurriedly  adjured  her  "if  she  should  ever  want 
anything,"  "if  she  should  want  a  friend  to  stand 
by  her."  Margaret  smiled,  and  gave  him  her 
hand  like  a  young  princess.  "  But  how  can  I 
ever  want  anybody,"  she  said,  "when  there  is 
Jean?"  which  was  not  so  satisfactory.  He  felt 
more  lonely,  more  dismal,  more  altogether  out 
of  place  than  there  was  any  reason  for,  when, 
finally,  Mrs.  Bellingham  packed  her  little  com- 
forts into  the  carriage,  and  Miss  Grace  entreated 
everybody  to  take  her  place,  and  the  travellers 
rolled  away,  waving  their  hands  to  him  as  he 
stood  at  the  inn  door. 

It  is  always  a  dismal  thing  to  stand  at  the 
door  of  an  inn  and  see  the  greater  part  of  the 


party  who  have  been  rambling,  walking,  talking, 
laughing,  and  crying  together,  drive  away.  Ran- 
dal felt  his  heart  sink  in  his  breast.  To  be  sure, 
Margaret  Leslie  was  nothing  to  him,  except  a 
child  whom  he  had  known  all  his  life.  He  stood 
there  and  fell  a  thinking,  while  the  landlord  nod- 
ded and  winked  to  the  waiter,  and  the  maids 
behind  pitied  the  poor  young  gentleman.  How 
well  he  remembered  the  little  motherless  baby 
in  her  black  ribbons,  whom  his  mother  had  once 
placed  in  his  astonished  arms !  He  had  told 
Margaret  of  it  only  yesterday ;  but  he  did  not 
tell  her  what  Mrs.  Burnside  said.  "It  will  be 
time  enough  for  you  to  marry,  Randal,  when 
she  is  old  enough  to  be  your  wife,"  the  prudent 
mother  had  said.  She  would  never  be  his  wife 
now,  nor  anybody's  who  could  understand  her 
who  was  worthy  of  her.  To  think  of  that  creat- 
ure falling  to  the  lot  of  Rob  Glen !  The  blooti 
rushed  to  Randal's  face,  and  he  clenched  his 
hands  unawares ;  then,  coming  to  himself,  seized 
his  fishing-tackle,  which  had  been  of  so  little  use, 
and  hurried  away. 

And  Margaret  was  very  quiet  all  the  day  af- 
ter, leaving  Effie  to  respond  to  Aubrey's  witti- 
cisms from  the  box.  It  had  come  to  be  the 
habit  that  Effie  should  reply.  Mrs.  Bellingham 
was  just  as  comfortably  placed  as  usual,  and  had 
her  eau -de -cologne,  and  her  paper-knife,  and 
plenty  of  shillings  in  her  purse  for  the  Highland 
tolls,  and  everything  as  she  liked  it ;  but  she  was 
not  so  amiable  as  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  jour- 
ney. For  one  thing,  there  was  not  at  all  a  sat- 
isfactory place  for  luncheon,  and  the  wind  was 
cold,  and  she  had  not  the  kind  of  large  pin  she 
liked  to  fasten  her  shawl. 

"We  are  going  to  have  a  wet  August,"  she 
said.  "  When  August  is  wet,  the  best  thing  to 
do  is  to  get  out  of  Scotland.  It  is  bad  enough 
anywhere,  but  it  is  abominable  in  the  Highlands. 
There  are  the  same  sort  of  looking  tourists  you 
find  in  Chamouni,  only  poorer,  and  it  is  cold, 
which  it  is  not  in  Switzerland  ;  at  least,  it  is  not 
always  cold  in  Switzerland.  Your  papa,  Effie, 
is  to  meet  us  in  Glasgow  on  Tuesday,  and  then 
I  think  we  shall  go  South." 

Nobody  said  anything  against  this  sentence. 
There  are  days  when  the  wind  is  more  keen  than 
usual,  when  the  rain  is  wetter,  and  the  mud  mud- 
dier. This  was  one  of  these  days.  It  came 
down  in  torrents  in  the  middle  of  the  journey; 
and  before  the  hood  of  the  carriage  could  be  got 
up  a  large  piece  of  Mrs.  Bellingham's  crape  on 
the  side  next  the  wind  had  been  soaked  and 
ruined  forever.  This,  her  sister  thought,  was  her 
own  fault,  in  that  she  had  incautiously  thrown 
aside  her  water-proof;  but  she  herself  held  it  to 
be  Effie's,  who  had  thrown  a  shawl  over  that 
water-proof,  "carefully  concealing  it,"  the  ag- 
grieved lady  said.  To  have  your  crape  ruined 
when  you  have  just  gone  into  mourning  is  a 
grievance  enough  to  upset  any  lady's  temper, 
and  it  cannot  be  said  that  any  of  the  party  en- 
joyed the  drive  on  this  ill-fated  day. 

After  this  the  pleasure  of  the  expedition  grew 
less  and  less.  Sir  Ludovic,  who  met  the  party 
in  Glasgow,  took  an  opportunity  to  take  Marga- 
ret aside,  and  talked  to  her  with  a  grave  face. 

"  I  hope  you  will  see  how  wrong  you  are,  Mar- 
garet," he  said,  "about  that  lad.  I  have  seen 
him,  and  he  is  as  firm  as  a  rock  because  of  your 
encouragement.     Do  you  think  it  is  a  light  thing 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


113 


for  a  young  girl  like  you  to  give  such  a  man  en- 
couragement, and  dispose  of  yourself  without  the 
knowledge  of  one  of  your  friends  ?  I  told  him 
I  would  never  give  my  consent ;  but  lie  as  good 
as  said  he  did  not  care  a  pin  for  my  consent ; 
that  he  had  got  yours,  and  that  was  all  he  want- 
ed. But  there  is  one  thing  I  must  insist  upon, 
Margaret,  and  that  is  that  you  will  hold  no  clan- 
destine intercourse  with  him.  It  would  not  be 
— delicate,  and  it  would  not  be  honorable.  It  is 
only  to  save  you  that  I  don't  tell  Jean.  Jean 
would  be  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind.  I  don't 
know  what  Jean  might  not  do ;  but  unless  you 
will  promise  me  that  there  shall  be  no  corre- 
spondence, it  is  my  duty  to  tell  Jean." 

"I  don't  wish  to  have  any  correspondence," 
said  Margaret,  drooping  her  head,  with  a  burn- 
ing blush.  Oh,  if  they  would  but  let  her  forget 
it  all !     But  this  was  what  they  would  not  do. 

"If  you  will  give  me  your  promise  to  that" — 
he  said  ;  and  in  his  pleasure  at  what  seemed  to 
him  his  little  sister's  dutifulness,  Sir  Ludovic 
took  her  hand  into  his  and  gave  a  fatherly  kiss 
on  her  forehead ;  all  which  his  sisters  contem- 
plated with  wondering  eyes. 

"Dear  Ludovic,  how  kind  you  are  to  darling 
Margaret !"  cried  Miss  Grace,  running  to  him 
and  bestowing  a  kiss  of  her  own  by  way  of 
thanks. 

"I  see  no  need  for  all  this  kissing, "said  Mrs. 
Bellingham ;  "what  is  the  meaning  of  it?  I 
hope,  Ludovic,  you  are  not  encouraging  Mar- 
garet to  make  you  her  confessor,  and  to  have 
secrets  and  mysteries  from  Grace  and  me,  who 
are  her  natural  guardians  and  her  best  friends  !" 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

It  was  on  a  bright  day  in  the  end  of  August 
that  Margaret  Leslie  arrived  at  the  Grange, 
which  was  her  own  house,  her  mother's  birth- 
place, and  her  future  home.  They  had  been 
rather  more  than  a  month  on  the  way,  and  had 
last  come  from  Mrs.  Bellingham's  house,  which 
was  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bellingham  Court — 
not  the  great  house  of  her  district,  but  very  near 
and  closely  related  to  that  reigning  mansion. 
Mrs.  Bellingham  had  not  been  without  grievances 
in  her  life.  Indeed,  had  one  of  two  events  hap- 
pened which  she  had  every  reason  to  expect 
would  happen,  her  present  position  would  have 
been  different  and  much  more  satisfactory.  Had 
her  husband  lived  only  a  year  longer,  she  would 
have  been  Lady  Bellingham  of  the  Court,  the 
foremost  lady  in  the  county  ;  and  had  she  been 
the  mother  of  a  son,  that  son  would  have  been 
Sir  Somebody,  and  his  mother  would  still  have 
been  —  during  his  inevitably  long  minority  at 
least  —  the  mistress  of  the  great  house.  But 
these  two  natural  events  did  not  happen.  Jean 
was  the  mother  of  neither  son  nor  daughter,  and 
her  husband,  the  eldest  son — old  Sir  Anthony's 
heir— had  cheated  her  effectually  out  of  all  share 
in  the  splendors  of  the  house — which  splendors, 
indeed,  had  been  much  more  attractive  than 
himself — by  dying  most  spitefully  a  year  before 
his  father.  If  it  had  been  a  year  after,  she 
would  not  have  minded  so  much.  But  as  it  was, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  retire  to  the 
Dower  House,  and  to  see  her  next  sister-in-law, 


with  whom  she  had  not  been  on  very  affectionate 
terms,  become  Lady  Bellingham,  and  enter  into 
possession  of  everything.  It  may  be  supposed 
that  this  was  no  slight  trial;  but  Jean,  every 
one  allowed,  had  behaved  like  a  heroine.  In  the 
moment  of  deep  and  real  affliction  which  follow- 
ed old  Sir  Anthony's  death,  she  had  taken  the 
situation  under  review,  and  considered  it  very 
deeply.  The  first  suggestion  naturally  had  been 
that  she  should  return  home,  or  at  least  settle 
in  the  neighborhood  of  her  father's  house.  But 
Jean  reflected  that  her  father  was  not  only  old 
but  poor,  that  his  house  was  very  limited  in  ac- 
commodation, and  that  when  her  present  gloom 
and  crape  were  over,  there  was  neither  amuse- 
ment nor  occupation  to  be  had  at  EaiTs-hall,  such 
as  might  oil  the  wheels  of  life  and  enable  every- 
thing to  go  smoothly.  Fife  was  not  lively,  nor 
was  Earl's-hall  attractive ;  whereas  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Court,  though  it  would  be  hard 
to  see  another  woman  reigning  there,  there  was 
always  likely  to  be  something  going  on.  and  the 
family  was  of  the  first  consequence  in  the  district, 
not  shabby  and  worn-out  like  the  poor  Leslies. 
Having  come  to  this  decision,  Mrs.  Bellingham 
had  taken  her  measures  accordingly.  She  had 
thrown  off  at  once  the  natural  air  of  grievance 
which  everybody  had  excused  in  her  after  such 
disappointments.  Instead  of  troubling  the  new 
Lady  Bellingham  in  her  arrangements,  she  had 
thrown  herself  heartily  into  the  work,  and  aided 
her  in  every  way  in  her  power.  "  I  don't  mean 
to  say  that  it  is  not  a  disappointment,"  she  said  ; 
"I  hoped,  of  course — I  don't  deny  it — to  be  mis- 
tress here  myself.  I  have  worked  for  it :  through 
all  Sir  Anthony's  illness,  I  am  sure,  I  never  was 
less  attentive  to  him  because  I  knew  I  should  be 
turned  out  as  soon  as  he  was  released  from  his 
sufferings." 

"  No,  I  am  sure  you  never  were,"  said  the  new 
Sir  Anthony,  warmly. 

"And  I  should  have  liked  to  be  my  lady,  I 
don"t  deny  it.  If  my  poor  Aubrey  had  lived,  I 
should  have  enjoyed  the  position  quite  as  much 
as  you  I  hope  will  enjoy  it,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  enjoy  it!  think  of  the  responsibility!" 
cried  the  new  Lady  Bellingham. 

"I  should  not  have  minded  the  responsibility ; 
but  Providence  has  settled  otherwise — you  have 
it,  and  I  have  not.  But  don't  think  I  am  going 
to  be  disagreeable  on  that  account.  I  will  move 
into  the  Dower  House  as  soon  as  you  please,  and 
I  will  do  everything  I  can  to  help  you  in  settling 
down.  I  know  how  to  struggle  for  my  rights 
when  it  is  necessary, "Mrs.  Bellingham  had  said, 
not  without  a  warning  glance  at  Sir  Anthony, 
"  but,  thank  Heaven,  I  also  know  how  to  sub- 
mit." 

In  this  spirit  she  had  begun  her  life,  and  with 
the  same  noble  meaning  had  lived  many  years  a 
kind  of  secondary  star  in  the  Bellingham  firma- 
ment, shining  independently,  but  never  in  oppo- 
sition. A  close  connection  with  the  Court  made 
the  Dower  House  important,  and  she  kept  up 
that  connection.  She  was  always  serviceable, 
giving  as  well  as  receiving,  maintaining  her  own 
position,  even  while  she  magnified  it  by  that  of 
the  great  house;  and,  in  short,  nothing,  all  her 
friends  allowed,  could  be  more  perfect  than  her 
behavior,  which  was  everything  a  sister's  ought 
to  be,  and  everything  that  could  be  desired  in  an 
aunt.      The  Dower  House  was  a  pretty  house, 


114 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


and  Mrs.  Bellingham's  jointure  was  sufficient  to 
permit  her  a  comfortable  little  carriage,  a  nice 
little  establishment,  with  the  means  of  giving  ex- 
cellent dinners  when  she  chose,  and  enjoying  life 
in  a  dignified  and  most  comfortable  way.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  dined  very  often  at  the  Court, 
and  had  the  use  of  their  superfluous  luxuries, 
and  a  share  in  everything  that  was  going  on, 
which  increased  at  once  her  comfort  and  her 
consequence.  This  was  the  position  in  which 
she  stood  to  her  relations  and  neighbors.  She 
felt  now  that  she  was  about  to  repay  them  a  hun- 
dred-fold for  all  the  little  advantages  they  had 
thrown  in  her  way  by  providing  for  Aubrey,  who 
was  her  husband's  godson,  and  the  least  success- 
ful member  of  the  family.  Aubrey  was  very  ac- 
complished, very  charming,  very  idle.  He  could 
not  be  got  to  do  anything,  except  make  himself 
agreeable,  and  he  had  never  even  done  that  to 
any  purpose.  When  Mrs.  Bellingham  heard  that 
her  father  was  dying,  her  first  thought  was  of 
this.  But  she  was  a  woman  who  could  keep  her 
own  counsel.  She  sent  Aubrey  a  check,  and 
directions  for  his  route :  she  threw  facilities  in 
his  way,  of  which  he  did  not,  perhaps,  quite 
make  the  use  she  expected  ;  but  still  things  had 
mended  in  the  latter  part  of  their  journey,  and 
Margaret  and  he  had  been  very  good  friends 
when  they  parted,  and  all  was  well  in  train  in 
pursuit  of  this  purpose.  Mrs.  Bellingham  car- 
ried her  young  sister  to  the  Dower  House,  and 
showed  her  the  greatness  of  the  Court.  It  was 
vacant  for  the  moment,  but  its  imposing  size  and 
splendor  filled  Margaret  with  admiration. 

"All  this  would  have  been  mine,  Margaret,  if 
my  poor  dear  Aubrey  had  lived.  You  may  think 
what  a  grief  it  was  to  me  to  lose  him,"  said  Jean, 
with  a  sigh.  "And  that  is  why  I  take  such 
deep  interest  in  Aubrey,  who  was  his  godson, 
you  know.     This  is  Aubrey's  home." 

"  Dearest  Jean !  how  much  more  we  ought  to 
think  of  her,  and  try  to  please  her,  darling  Mar- 
garet," said  Miss  Leslie;  "when  we  see  how 
much  she  has  lost." 

And  when  they  had  gone  over  all  the  empty 
stately  rooms,  and  looked  at  all  the  portraits — 
docile  Margaret  receiving  the  tale  of  family  gran- 
deur with  unquestioning  assent — and  had  made 
acquaintance  with  the  lesser  world  of  the  Dower 
House,  its  paddock,  its  gardens,  its  conservatory, 
all  the  little  comforts  and  elegancies  which  were 
so  dear  to  the  sisters,  it  was  time  to  set  out  for 
the  Grange,  that  Margaret  might  see  her  own 
house.  It  had  been  settled  that  Mrs.  Bellingham 
and  Miss  Leslie  should  go  there  with  her  to  take 
possession  of  it,  and  to  see  what  changes  would 
require  to  be  made,  to  fit  it  for  occupation — and 
that  they  were  to  remain  with  her  there  as  long 
as  the  fine  weather  lasted,  going  back  to  the 
Dower  House  for  winter  and  Christmas.  The 
Grange  lay  in  another  county,  and  was  some  dis- 
tance from  the  house  of  the  Bellingham's,  with 
which  it  communicated  only  by  a  very  circuitous 
route.  In  old  days,  when  the  ladies  would  have 
been  obliged  to  post,  it  would  have  taken  days 
instead  of  hours  to  get  to  it,  and  yet  it  would 
have  proved  a  nearer  way.  They  had  to  go  to 
the  nearest  town  and  then  take  a  train  going 
north,  in  order  to  find  at  the  junction  a  train 
going  south,  in  which  they  could  proceed  to  the 
end  of  their  journey.  And  what  between  the 
changes,  and  the  waiting  here  and  there,  this 


journey  occupied  most  part  of  the  day.  It  was 
dark  when  they  drove  from  the  little  town  where 
the  railway  ended,  through  a  succession  of  dim 
roads  and  lanes  and  under  overshadowing  trees 
that  made  the  twilight  dimness  greater,  to  the 
Grange :  which  presented  no  recognizable  feat- 
ure, but  was  merely  a  large  shadow  in  the  gloom 
surrounded  by  shadows  less  solid — ghosts  of  wav- 
ing trees  and  high  hedge-rows.  There  was  a 
woman  visible  at  the  little  lodge,  who  came  out 
and  opened  the  gate  and  courtesied  to  the  stran- 
gers, leaving  her  cottage  door  open  and  showing 
a  cheerful  glow  of  fire-light,  and  a  tiny  little  girl 
of  three  or  four  years  old,  standing  against  the 
light  and  gazing  at  the  carriage ;  but  this  was  the 
only  gleam  of  cheerfulness  that  dwelt  in  Marga- 
ret's mind.  The  child's  face  was  scarcely  visible, 
but  its  little  sturdy  figure  against  the  fire-light, 
with  two  small  feet  well  apart,  and  the  most  won- 
dering curiosity  in  its  entire  pose,  made  the  for- 
lorn little  mistress  of  the  place  smile  as  she  went 
through  those  gates  which  led  to  her  home.  After 
this  there  was  a  long  avenue  to  drive  through., 
with  great  trees  overshadowing  the  carriage,  and 
tossing  their  branches  about  in  the  night  wind. 
It  had  been  a  very  hot  day,  and  the  breeze  which 
had  sprung  up  was  very  grateful,  but  the  moaning 
it  made  in  the  branches  was  very  melancholy,  and 
affected  poor  Margaret's  imagination.  "How 
the  wind  soughs,"  she  said,  with  full  use  of  the 
dreary  guttural.  She  was  sitting  in  the  front 
seat  of  the  cab  as  it  jolted  along  amidst  all  those 
waving  shadows,  aud  Margaret  felt  very  sad,  she 
did  not  know  why.  She  had  been  curious  about 
her  sister's  house,  and  interested,  and  had  liked 
the  novelty  and  perpetual  change ;  but  she  did 
not  feel  any  curiosity,  nothing  but  sadness,  in 
coming  to  this  place,  which  was  her  own,  though 
there  was  nobody  here  to  welcome  her.  How 
the  wind  soughed!  no  other  word  could  express 
so  well  the  wild  moan  and  wailing,  which  is  an 
exaggeration  by  nature  of  the  sound  which  the 
French  call  tears  in  the  voice.  It  went  to  Mar- 
garet's heart :  the  tears  came  into  her  voice,  too, 
and  filled  her  eyes  in  the  darkness.  All  was 
melancholy  in  this  home-coming  to  nothing  but 
darkness  and  the  unknown  —  the  wind  tossing 
about  the  branches  and  complaining  to  the  night, 
the  sound  of  water  somewhere,  complaining  too, 
with  a  feeble  tinkle — the  sky  invisible,  except  in 
a  speck  here  and  there,  just  light  enough  to  show 
how  the  branches  were  tossing  overhead.  The 
young  traveller  drooped  her  head  in  her  corner, 
and  felt  her  courage  and  her  heart  fail. 

"  Margaret,"  said  Jean's  voice  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, from  the  other  side  of  the  carriage,  "you 
must  learn  to  remember  now  that  you  are  not  a 
Scotch  country  girl  in  Fife,  but  an  English  young 
lady  with  a  character  to  keep  up — a  landed  pro- 
prietor. Don't  talk  that  vulgar  Scotch.  If  you 
use  such  language  here  nobody  will  understand 
you ;  and  they  will  think  you  a  girl  without  any 
education,  which  would  be  most  painful  for  all 
your  relatives,  and  a  slur  upon  poor  papa's  mem- 
ory.    Therefore  remember,  no  Scotch." 

This  altogether  completed  Margaret's  down- 
fall. The  gloom,  the  sobbing  wind,  the  contrast 
between  this  home-coming  and  all  that  is  ordi- 
narily implied  in  the  word,  were  enough  in  them- 
selves to  overwhelm  so  young  a  creature,  still  so 
short  a  way  removed  from  the  first  grief  of  her 
life ;  but  the  reproof  was  of  a  kind  which  made 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


11.' 


the  contrast  still  move  poignant  Nothing  in  all 
his  intercourse  with  his  favorite  child  had  heen 
so  tender  or  so  characteristic  as  Sir  Ludovic's 
soft,  laughing  animadversions  upon  that  very 
point — "My  little  Peggy,  you  must  not  he  so 
Scotch!"  How  often  had  he  said  it,  his  face 
lighted  up  with  tenderest  laughter,  his  reproof 
more  sweet  than  other  people's  praise.  But  how 
different  it  sounded  when  Jean  said  it !  Some- 
thing came  climbing  into  Margaret's  throat  and 
choked  her.  When  the  carriage  stopped  with  a 
jar  and  a  crash,  as  it  did  at  that  moment  at  the 
scarcely  discernible  door,  she  could  not  wait  for 
its  opening,  or  till  the  coachman  should  scramble 
from  his  perch,  but  flung  the  carriage  door  open, 
and  jumped  out,  eager  for  movement  of  any 
kind ;  her  forehead  throbbing  with  pain  over  her 
eyebrows,  the  sob  in  her  throat,  and  a  sudden 
gush  of  salt-water,  hot  and  bitter,  blinding  her 
eyes.  What  could  be  more  unlucky  than  to 
alight  thus  before  the  closed  door  and  not  be  able 
to  see  it  for  tears?  It  opened,  however,  while 
Margaret  began  to  help  Steward,  who  had  groped 
her  way  from  the  box,  to  get  out  the  innumerable 
small  articles  with  which  the  cab  was  crowded. 
The  country  girl,  who  appeared  at  the  door  with 
a  candle  protected  by  a  long  glass  shade  in  her 
hand,  did  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  the 
slim  creature  not  so  big  as  herself,  with  the  arm- 
ful of  cloaks  and  shawls,  was  her  mistress.  She 
addressed  herself  to  the  ladies  in  the  carriage,  as 
was  natural. 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,"  she  said,  making  a 
courtesy,  ' '  Miss  Parker  have  gone  to  bed  with  a 
bad  headache ;  but  please  there's  tea  in  the  par- 
lor, and  all  your  rooms  is  ready." 

Margaret,  however,  scarcely  saw  the  dark 
wainscoted  room  into  which  she  followed  her 
sisters,  hearing  their  voices  and  exclamations  as 
in  a  dream.  It  only  seemed  to  Margaret  to  look 
very  dark,  very  cold,  with  its  gleams  of  reflec- 
tions. Her  little  white-panelled  room  at  home 
was  far  more  cheerful  than  this  dark  place.  She 
heard  them  say  it  was  lovely !  perfect !  in  such 
good  keeping!  without  paying  any  attention. 
It  was  not  in  keeping  with  Margaret.  In  all 
her  life  she  had  never  felt  such  a  poor  little  mel- 
ancholy stranger,  such  a  desolate  childish  atom 
in  an  unknown  world,  as  during  this  first  hour 
in  the  house  which  belonged  to  her,  the  place 
where  she  was  absolute  mistress. 

Finding  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  made  of 
her,  that  she  would  neither  eat  the  plentiful  fare 
on  the  table,  nor  admire  the  china  in  the  great 
open  cupboards,  nor  make  herself  amiable  in  any 
way,  Mrs.  Bellingham  gave  her  a  cup  of  warm 
tea  and  sent  her  to  bed ;  where  Steward,  with  a 
little  pity,  deferring  her  mistress's  unpacking, 
benevolently  followed  to  help  her  to  undress. 
They  had  put  her  into  a  large,  low,  many-lat- 
ticed room,  with  that  mixture  in  it  of  Venerable 
mansion  and  homely  cottage  which  is  the  dream 
of  such  rural  houses ;  but  in  the  darkness  made 
visible  by  two  poor  candles,  even  that  was  little 
'  more  cheerful  than  the  dark  parlor  with  its  wain- 
scot. At  Earl's-hall,  even  in  August,  there  might 
have  been  a  little  friendly  fire  to  make  a  stranger 
at  home;  but  in  "  the  South — !"  How  many 
a  pang  of  cold  have  we  all  supported  in  much 
warmer  latitudes  than  England,  for  very  shame 
because  of  "the  South!" 

Naturally,  however,  Margaret  could  not  sleep, 


though  she  was  glad  to  be  alone.  She  kept  her 
candle  lighted,  to  bear  her  company  with  some- 
thing of  a  child's  dread  of  the  darkness,  and  lay 
thinking  with  eyes  preternaturally  awake,  now 
that  the  tears  had  been  all  wept  out.  She  thought 
of  everything  —  of  Earl's-hall,  and  the  rhythm 
of  the  pines  which  were  not  like  that  rainy  mel- 
ancholy sough,  and  of  those  moments  in  the 
wood  when  she  had  gone  out  with  her  eyes  just 
so  hot  with  tears  unshed,  and  just  such  a  fiery 
throbbing  of  pain  in  her  forehead,  and  choking 
in  her  throat.  And  oh,  how  kind  he  had  been ! 
he  had  not  thought  of  himself,  but  only  of  com- 
forting her.  How  he  had  drawn  her  to  him, 
made  her  lean  upon  him,  taken  off  the  weight  of 
her  sorrow.  How  hard-hearted  she  had  been  to 
poor  Rob,  never  thinking  of  him  all  these  days, 
glad  to  escape  from  the  thought  of  him.  Aud 
he  had  been  so  kind !  A  great  compunction 
came  into  her  mind.  How  much  he  had  been 
mingled  in  the  twist  of  her  life  at  that  time  which 
of  all  other  times  had  been  the  most  momentous 
in  it !  and  how  was  it  possible  that  when  that 
crisis  was  over  her  very  fancy  should  have  so 
fled  from  him,  her  thoughts  thrust  him  away  ? 
Poor  Rob !  and  he  had  been  so  kind  !  Margaret 
begged  his  pardon  in  her  heart  with  great  self- 
reproach,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  make  him 
any  amends.  She  had  no  desire  to  call  him 
back  to  her,  to  see  him  again,  to  write  to  him. 
Oh  no !  she  drew  her  breath  hard,  with  a  sudden 
panic:  why  should  she  write  to  him?  It  was 
not  necessary.  She  could  not  write  at  all  a  nice 
letter  such  as  would  be  a  pleasure  to  any  one. 
But  the  thought  seemed  to  catch  her  very  breath, 
her  heart  began  to  thump  again,  and  her  brow  to 
burn  aud  throb. 

"Are  you  asleep,  dear  Margaret  ?"  said  Grace, 
coming  in.  "  I  just  ran  up-stairs  for  a  moment 
to  see.  Dearest  Jean  is  going  over  the  rooms, 
to  see  what  sort  of  rooms  they  are — not  that  we 
can  see  very  much  at  night ;  and,  of  course,  dar- 
ling Margaret,  I  should  like  much  better,  and  so 
would  dear  Jean,  to  wait  till  you  were  with  us 
yourself ;  and  if  you  would  like  me  to  stay  with 
you,  I  would  much  rather  stay.  I  shouldn't  at 
all  mind  giving  it  up.  So  far  as  one  can  see,  it 
is  the  dearest  old  place,  so  old-fashioned!  and 
such  china,  and  old  armor  in  the  hall !  — real 
armor,  just  as  delightful  as  what  you  see  in  War- 
dour  Street.  Dear  Jean  is  so  pleased.  Now  do 
go  to  sleep,  darling  Margaret,  go  to  sleep.  The 
wainscot  parlor  is  the  dearest  old  room,  just  like 
a  picture.  I  am  to  go  out  and  join  dear  Jean 
on  the  stairs  when  I  hear  her  coming  up.  She 
is  talking  to  Steward  about  unpacking,  for  dear 
Jean  is  very  particular  about  her  unpacking. 
Are  you  asleep,  darling? — not  yet?  but  you 
must  really  go  to  sleep,  and  be  quite  fresh  for 
to-morrow.  That  is  right,  shut  your  eyes,  and 
I  will  shade  the  candle ;  or  perhaps  it  would  be 
better  to  have  a  night-light ;  I  think  I  must  try 
to  get  you  a  night-light.  There  is  dear  Jean 
coming  up  the  stairs.  She  enjoys  anything  like 
this.  That  is  her  voice  coming  up.  You  can 
always  hear  dear  Jean's  voice,  walking  about  a 
house.  At  the  Dower  House,  when  I  am  in  my 
room,  I  always  hear  her  at  night  starting  to  see 
that  all  the  doors  and  windows  are  safe.  She 
begins  with  the  scullery  and  goes  everywhere. 
Dear  Jean  is  energetic  to  a  fault.  She  does  not 
mind  what  trouble  she   takes.     Now  you   are 


116 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


asleep,  darling  Margaret,  quite  fast :  hush  — 
hush !"  said  Miss  Grace,  patting  her  shoulder 
softly.  It  was  not  a  very  sensible  proceeding, 
hut  it  soothed  Margaret.  She  turned  round  her 
cheek,  still  wet  with  tears,  with  a  soft  laugh, 
which  was  half  derision  and  half  pleasure. 

"I  am  fast  asleep;  now  run,  Grace,  run,  or 
Jean  will  scold  you." 

"Oh,  it  is  not  that  I  am  afraid!  but  really, 
really  if  you  are  going  to  sleep,  and  don't  want 
me  to  stay — I  will  stay  in  a  moment  if  you 
would  like  it,  darling  Margaret ;  but  perhaps  I 
should  only  keep  you  from  sleeping,  and  dear 
Jean — " 

"Where  has  she  run  to  now?"  they  could 
hear  Jean's  voice  saying  at  a  distance,  and  Miss 
Grace  gave  her  young  sister  a  hasty  kiss  and 
hurried  away.  Margaret  lay  still  and  listened 
for  a  long  time  while  Jean's  voice  perambulated 
the  house,  going  everywhere.  It  gave  a  new 
sort  of  brisk  activity  to  the  dark  and  cold  place. 
Up  and  down  and  about  the  passages  went  the 
high-pitched  tones,  commenting  on  everything. 
It  was  seldom  that  Margaret  could  make  out 
what  they  said.  But  the  sound  made  a  cheer 
and  comfort,  a  sense  of  society  and  protection. 
By -and -by  she  got  drowsy  with  those  cheerful 
echoes  in  her  ears,  and  dropped  at  last  into  the 
deep  sleep  of  youth,  with  a  sense  of  this  peaceful 
patrolling  all  about  her,  the  darkness  lighted  by 
gleams  of  the  candles  they  carried,  and  by  Jean's 
voice. 

And  in  the  morning  what  a  flood  of  sunshine 
filled  the  room !  lavish,  extravagant  sunshine 
pouring  in,  as  if  it  had  nothing  else  to  do ; 
which  indeed  was  pretty  nearly  the  case,  as  all 
the  harvest  was  housed  about  the  Grange,  and 
there  was  not  much,  except  light  matters  of  fruit, 
for  that  magnificent  sun  to  do,  nothing  but  to 
ripen  the  peaches  on  the  walls  and  the  apples  on 
the  trees,  and  wake  for  a  joke,  with  a  blaze  and 
illumination  which  might  have  done  for  a  king, 
a  little  bit  of  a  slim  girl  in  the  low-roofed  cham- 
ber with  its  many  windows.  Margaret  woke  all 
in  a  moment,  as  you  wake  with  a  start  when 
some  one  stands  and  looks  at  you  fixedly,  pene- 
trating the  strongest  bond  of  drowsiness.  She 
sprang  up,  her  mind  already  full  of  excitement 
as  she  recollected  where  she  was :  in  the  Grange, 
in  her  own  house !  a  curious  thrill  of  pleasure, 
and  wonder,  and  eager  curiosity  came  over  her. 
She  got  up  and  dressed  hastily  in  her  eagerness 
to  see  her  surroundings. 

From  her  windows  she  looked  out  upon  noth- 
ing but  trees,  a  walled  garden  on  one  side,  a  lit- 
tle park  on  the  other,  a  glimpse  of  a  small  stream 
with  a  little  wooden  bridge  over  it,  and  trees,  and 
more  trees  as  far  as  the  eye  could  go.  Her  eye 
went  as  far  as  eye  could  go  in  that  unconscious 
appeal  for  something  to  rest  upon  which  is  in- 
stinctively made  by  all  who  are  accustomed  to 
hills ;  but  there  was  no  blue  line  upon  the  hori- 
zon, no  undulation  to  relieve  her.  The  only  in- 
equality was  in  the  trees,  which  were  some  lower 
and  some  more  lofty — in  tufts  of  rich  foliage  ev- 
erywhere, shading  the  landscape  like  a  delicate 
drawing.  Though  it  would  not  be  September 
till  next  day,  yet  there  were  already  traces  here 
and  there  that  autumn  had  tinted  the  woods 
with  that  "fiery  finger."  It  was  nothing  more 
than  a  touch ;  but  it  brightened  the  picture. 
How  different  from  the  parched  elms  and  oaks 


all  bare  with  the  wind,  and  the  dark  unchanging 
firs  in  the  Earl's-hall  woods ! 

The  house  was  still  asleep  when  she  stole  down- 
stairs, half  afraid  of  herself,  down  the  oak  stair- 
case, with  its  heavy  balustrade.  She  was  the 
only  thing  waking  in  the  silent  house,  which  still 
was  so  full  of  living,  waking  sunshine.  She 
seemed  to  herself  to  be  the  last  survivor  —  the 
only  inhabitant.  Timorously  she  stole  down, 
finding  shutters  at  all  the  windows,  bolts  at  all 
the  doors.  At  Earl's-hall  who  ever  dreamed  of 
a  bolt  or  a  bar !  The  door  was  "  snecked  "  when 
John  thought  of  it,  but  often  enough  was  left  on 
the  latch,  so  that  any  one  might  have  come  in ; 
but  very  different  were  the '  precautions  here. 
She  stole  about  on  tiptoe,  peeping  here  and 
there,  feeling  herself  an  intruder,  totally  unable 
to  believe  that  all  this  was  hers  ;  and  very  much 
frightened  by  the  noise  she  made,  undid  the 
heavy  fastenings  and  opened  the  great  door, 
which  creaked  and  clanged  as  if  calling  for  help 
against  some  invader. 

The  dew  was  still  sparkling  on  the  flowers 
when  she  issued  forth  into  the  fresh  air  of  the 
morning,  doubly  refreshed  with  last  night's  show- 
ers. The  birds  were  singing,  nations  and  tribes 
of  them,  in  every  tree.  They  made  such  a  din 
round  her  as  she  stepped  out  that  she  could 
scarcely  hear  herself  thinking.  Instinctively 
Margaret  ran  down  to  the  little  brook,  which 
she  called  (to  herself)  the  burn.  And  there, 
looking  back,  she  stood  entranced  with  a  novel 
delight.  She  had  never  before  seen  anything 
like  it.  A  great  old  rambling  simple- minded 
English  house,  of  old  brick  with  a  bloom  on  it, 
and  touches  of  lichen,  golden  and  gray  :  covered 
with  verdure,  nothing  new  or  petty ;  the  very 
honeysuckles  grown  into  huge  trees,  forests  of 
the  simplest  white  clematis,  the  traveller's  joy, 
with  its  wild  wreaths  and  sweet  clusters  of  flow- 
ers, roses  in  their  second  bloom  mounting  up  to 
the  old  chimneys,  which  had  retreated  into  great 
bushes  of  ivy ;  and  everywhere  through  a  hun- 
dred folds  and  wreaths  of  green  —  everywhere 
the  mellow  redness  of  the  old  house  itself  peep- 
ing through.  Margaret  clasped  her  hands  in  de- 
light. The  landscape  was  nothing  but  trees, 
and  had  little  interest  for  her;  but  the  house! 
It  was  itself  like  a  great  flower,  all  warm  and 
strong.  And  this  was  hers!  She  could  not  be- 
lieve it.  She  stood  rapt,  and  gazed  at  the  per- 
fect place  —  a  mass  of  flowers  and  leafage,  and 
bloomy  old  walls.  It  was  a  poem  in  homely  red 
and  brown,  an  autumnal  sonnet.  And  this  was 
hers !  She  could  not  believe  it — it  was  too  beau- 
tiful to  be  true. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

After*  this  there  ensued  a  moment  of  great 
quiet  and  pleasant  domestic  life.  Miss  Parker, 
who  was  the  house-keeper,  was  a  very  legitimate 
member  of  the  class  which  nobody  had  then 
thought  of  calling  Lady-help,  but  which  flourish- 
ed in  the  shadow  and  protection  of  a  family  as 
Poor  Relation.  She  was  a  distant  cousin  of  Mar- 
garet's mother,  who,  having  no  money  and  no 
talents  of  any  serviceable  sort,  had  been  kindly 
provided  for  in  this  very  natural  domestic  office  ; 
and  the  good  woman  took  a  great  deal  of  inter- 
est in  Margaret,  and  would  not  have  at  all  dis- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


117 


liked  to  inspire  her  with  rebellion,  and  persuade 
her  to  make  a  stand  for  "  her  own  place  "  in 
her  own  house.  That  the  other  family,  the  oth- 
er side  of  the  house,  should  be  regnant  at  the 
Grange,  making  Margaret  appear  like  the  daugh- 
ter rather  than  the  mistress,  offended  her  in  ev- 
ery point ;  but  as  she  was  not  a  wicked  woman, 
and  Margaret  not  a  rebellious  girl,  these  little  in- 
tentions of  malice  came  to  nothing,  and  Jean 
commenced  an  unquestioned  and  on  the  whole 
beneficent  sway  with  little  resistance.  As  for 
Margaret  herself,  the  novelty  of  everything  filled 
her  life  with  fresh  springs  of  enjoyment,  and  gave 
her  a  genuine  new  beginning,  not  counter  to  the 
natural,  nor  in  any  way  antagonistic,  but  yet  gen- 
uinely novel,  fresh,  and  unconnected  with  any 
painful  or  disturbing  recollection. 

The  soft  unlikeness  of  the  leafy  English  land- 
scape round,  to  all  she  had  been  used  to,  was 
not  more  marked  than  the  other  differences  of 
her  life.  When  she  went  along  the  rural  road 
the  little  girls  courtesied  to  her,  and  so  did  the 
women  at  the  cottage-doors ;  they  stood  obse- 
quious in  their  own  houses,  when  she  went  to  see 
them,  as  if  she  had  been  the  Queen  ;  not  like  the 
cottagers  about  Earl's -hall,  to  whom  she  was 
only  Miss  Margaret,  who  courtesied  to  nobody, 
and  who  were  more  likely  to  offer  the  little  girl 
"a  piece"  or  a  "drink  of  milk"  than  to  take 
the  surreptitious  shillings  which  Margaret  at  the 
Grange  was  so  delighted  to  find  herself  able  to 
give.  "  But  they  will  be  affronted  !"  she  said,  in 
horror,  when  this  liberality  was  first  suggested  to 
her ;  such  a  difference  was  there  between  Fife 
and  "the  South."  Then,  within  reach,  there 
lay  a  beautiful  little  church,  in  which  there  were 
monuments  and  memorial  marbles  without  num- 
ber to  the  Sedleys,  the  family  of  her  mother,  the 
owners  of  the  Grange,  and  where  an  anxious 
new  incumbent  had  established  daily  service,  to 
which  he  was  very  anxious  the  Leslies  at  the 
Grange  should  come  by  way  of  setting  a  good 
example.  To  this  admirable  man,  who  thought 
that  within  the  four  seas  there  was  no  salvation 
except  in  the  Anglican  Communion,  Margaret 
unguardedly  avowed,  knowing  no  harm  in  it, 
that  she  had  been  brought  up  in  the  Church  of 
Scotland,  and  was  not  very  familiar  with  the  pray- 
er-book. Oh,  what  daggers  Jean  looked  at  her, 
poor  Margaret  not  knowing  why !  Mrs.  Belling- 
nam  made  haste  to  explain. 

"My  father  was  old-fashioned,  Mr.  St.  John, 
and  never  would  give  up  the  old  kirk.  I  think 
he  thought  it  was  right  to  go,  to  countenance 
the  common  people.  I  always  say  it  is  a  dis- 
grace, that  it  is  they  who  have  the  parish  church- 
es in  Scotland,  just  the  set  of  people  who  are  dis- 
senters here;  but  I  assure  you  all  the  gentry  go 
to  the  English  Church." 

Mr.  St.  John,  though  he  was  a  little  appalled 
by  that  generalization,  and  did  not  like  to  learn 
that  "the  common  people"  were  dissenters,  or 
that  any  church  but  the  Anglican  could  be  call- 
ed "old,"  yet  nevertheless  was  not  so  shocked 
as  he  might  have  been,  thinking,  good  man,  that 
the  common  people  in  Fife  probably  spoke  Gae- 
lic, and  that  this  was  the  reason  why  they  had 
their  service  separate  from  the  gentry.  He  be- 
gan immediately  to  talk  to  Margaret  about  the 
beauty  and  pathos  of  Celtic  music,  which  bewil- 
dered her  extremely,  for  naturally  Margaret  Les- 
lie, who  had  scarcely  ever  been  out  of  the  East 


Neuk  till  her  father's  death,  had  never  heard  a 
word  of  Gaelic  in  her  life.  •» 

And  now  at  last  Bell's  fondest  desires  were 
carried  out.  The  little  town  which  was  near, 
and  which  the  lessening  limits  of  this  history  for- 
bid us  to  touch  upon,  was  a  cathedral  town  full 
of  music  and  with  many  educational  advantages  ; 
for  there  were  numerous  schools  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  masters  came  from  town  to  supplv  the 
demand  two  or  three  times  a  week.  Margaret 
began  to  play  upon  the  "piany,"  as  Bell  had  al- 
ways longed  to  have  her  do,  and  to  speak  French. 
We  cannot  assert  that  she  made  very  much 
progress  in  the  former  accomplishment  with  her 
untrained  fingers  and  brief  patience;  but  she 
had  a  pretty  voice  and  learned  to  sing,  which  is 
perhaps  a  rarer  gift,  though  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  she  abused  this  privilege  and  went  about  the 
house  and  the  garden,  and  even  the  park,  singing 
at  the  top  of  her  voice,  till  her  sisters  were  pro- 
voked into  expostulation.  "  What  is  the  use  of 
teaching  you,"  Jean  cried,  "when  you  go  sing- 
ing, singing — skirling  they  would  call  it  in  Fife — 
straining  all  your  high  notes  ?  When  I  was  a 
girl  like  you,  I  was  never  allowed  to  open  my 
mouth  except  for  practising,  and  when  there  was 
an  occasion  for  it.  It  is  all  gone  now,  but  I  as- 
sure you  when  I  was  twenty  I  was  considered  to 
have  a  very  pretty  voice.  I  wish  yours  may  ever 
be  as  good.  It  will  not  be  so  long  if  you  go 
straining  it  in  this  way.  Do  you  think  the  birds 
want  to  hear  you  singing?"  cried  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham,  with  scorn. 

"Oh,  dearest  Jean!  but  dear  Margaret  has 
much  more  of  a  voice  than  we  ever  had.  We 
used  to  sing  duets — " 

"Yes,  Grace  had  a  little  chirp  of  a  second — 
just  what  you  will  come  to,  Margaret,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellingham,  "if  you  go  on  as  you  are  doing, 
straining  all  your  high  tones." 

As  for  the  French,  they  found  fault  with  her 
pronunciation,  which  was  natural  enough ;  but 
perhaps  it  was  not  so  natural  that  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham should  find  fault  with  the  irreproachable  ac- 
cent of  Monsieur  Dubois,  a  Parisian,  pur  sang, 
who  had  taught  princesses  in  his  day.  "No, 
Margaret,  my  dear ;  you  may  go  on  with  him, 
for  any  kind  of  French  is  better  than  none,  when 
you  are  so  far  behind  with  your  education.  But 
I  am  sure  he  is  taking  all  these  good  people  in 
with  his  fine  certificates  and  testimonials.  His 
French  cannot  be  good,  for  I  dorit  understand  a 
word  he  says  !"  Thus  the  autumn  went  on  :  the 
trees  about  the  Grange  got  aglow,  and  began  to 
blaze  with  glorious  colors,  and  Margaret  with  her 
crape  getting  shabby  (crape  gets  shabby  so  soon, 
heaven  be  praised  !)  ran  about  the  house,  the  park, 
the  country  roads,  and  the  village,  scolded,  pet- 
ted, taken  care  of,  watched  over,  teased  and  wor- 
ried, and  made  much  of,  as  she  had  never  been 
before.  She  had  been  the  child  at  EaiTs-hall, 
whose  innocent  faults  everybody  had  smiled  at, 
whose  innocent  virtues  had  met  the  same  fate, 
who  was  indeed  the  spring  of  everybody's  happi- 
ness, the  most  cherished,  the  most  beloved — but 
yet,  so  to  speak,  of  no  importance  at  all.  Here 
it  was  different ;  here  everything  hinged  on  Mar- 
garet. Jean,  though  she  was  a  despot,  insisted 
loudly  on  the  fact  that  she  was  but  a  despot-re- 
gent, and  Margaret's  name  was  put  to  everything, 
and  Margaret's  supremacy  upheld,  though  Mar- 
garet herself  was  scolded. 


118 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


What  difference  it  might  have  made  in  this 
state  of  affairs,  had  little  Margaret,  Sir  Ludovic's 
orphan  child,  been  dependent  upon  her  sisters, 
as,  but  for  that  mother  of  hers  of  whom  Marga- 
ret knew  nothing,  she  well  might  have  been,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  say.  They  would  have 
clone  her  "  every  justice ;"  they  would  have  taught 
her  to  sing  and  scolded  her  for  singing ;  they 
would  have  called  in  Monsieur  Dubois,  and  then 
declared  his  French  could  not  be  good ;  all  these 
things  would  have  happened  all  the  same,  and 
they  would  have  meddled  with  and  dictated  to, 
and  teased,  and  tried,  their  little  sister.  But 
whether  the  process  would  have  been  as  bearable 
as  it  was  under  the  present  circumstances,  who 
can  tell?  The  dependent  might  have  felt  that 
insupportable  which  tempted  the  heiress  into 
laughter,  and  .disclosed  a  fund  of  mirth  within 
which  she  did  not  know  she  possessed. 

One  thing,  however,  Jean  would  not  have  done 
had  Margaret  been  penniless,  which  she  did  for 
Margaret  as  the  young  lady  of  the  Grange.  She 
certainly  would  not  have  invited  Aubrey,  after 
his  return  from  Scotland,  to  come  and  see  the 
new  horse  that  had  been  bought  for  Margaret, 
and  to  superintend  her  instructions  in  that  kind. 
The  girl  had  ridden  at  home,  cantering  about  the 
country,  all  unattended,  on  a  gray  pony,  in  a  gray 
garment,  which  bore  but  a  faint  resemblance  to 
the  pretty  habit  in  which  she  was  now  clothed ; 
but  she  had  never  mounted  anything  like  the 
praucing  steed  which  was  now  to  be  called  hers. 
The  sisters  were  a  great  deal  too  careful  of  her 
to  allow  this  fiery  steed  to  be  mounted  until  after 
Margaret  and  the  horse  had  received  all  kinds  of 
preparation  for  the  conjunction ;  but  when  the 
ladies  came  out  to  superintend  the  start,  and 
watched  while  Aubrey,  newly  arrived,  put  the 
slim  light  creature  upon  her  horse,  Jean  and 
Grace  felt  a  movement  of  pride  in  her,  which 
made  the  more  emotional  sister  cry,  and  swelled 
Mrs.  Bellingham's  bosom  with  triumph.  "  Take 
care  of  her,'"  she  said  to  her  nephew  with  a  mean- 
ing glance,  "  for  you  will  not  find  many  like  her." 

"I  will  take  care,"  said  Aubrey,  returning  the 
look.  This  Mrs.  Bellingham  would  not  have 
done  had  Margaret  been  only  her  little  sister 
without  any  fortune,  instead  of  the  young  lady 
of  the  Grange. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  ride,  and  it  was  so  dif- 
ferent from  all  her  former  exercises  of  the  kind 
that  it  became  one  of  those  points  in  Margaret's 
life  which  tell  like  milestones  when  one  looks 
back.  She  did  not  talk  very  much  after  the  first 
delighted  outbreak  of  pleasure ;  but  in  her  heart 
went  back  to  the  stage  of  the  gray  pony,  and 
with  a  startled  sense  of  the  change  in  everything 
round  her,  contemplated  herself.  What  change 
had  passed  upon  her?  Was  it  only  that  she  was 
a  little  taller,  a  little  older,  transplanted  into  new 
surroundings,  separated  altogether  by  death  and 
distance  from  the  group  of  old  people  who  had 
been  all  her  world  ?  Not  altogether  that :  there 
were  other  changes  too  important  to  be  fully 
fathomed  during  a  ride  through  the  green  lanes, 
and  under  the  falling  leaves.  She  rode  along, 
hearing  vaguely  what  Aubrey  said  to  her,  mak- 
ing only  what  response  was  necessary,  wondering 
over  this  being  who  was,  yet  was  not,  herself. 
She  had  forgotten  all  about  herself  so  far  as  that 
was  possible  in  the  novelty  of  this  new  chapter  of 
her  career.     She  had  lived  only  from  day  to  day, 


from  moment  to  moment,  not  asking  herself  what 
she  was  doing,  how  she  was  changing ;  and  lo 
she  was  changed.  She  found  it  out  all  in  a  mo- 
ment. It  bewildered  and  turned  her  head,  and 
made  her  so  giddy,  that  her  companion  thought 
she  had  taken  a  panic  and  was  going  to  fall.  He 
started  and  put  out  his  hand  to  hold  her. 

"Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  Margaret  said;  "it  is 
over  now  ;  it  was  all  so  strange." 

"What  was  strange?  You  are  ill,  you  are 
giddy,  you  have  got  nervous." 

"  Yes,  I  am  giddy ;  but  neither  ill  nor  nervous. 
I  am  giddy  to  think — oh,  how  strange  it  is  !  Do 
you  remember,  Mr.  Aubrey,  when  we  were  in  the 
Highlands  in  August  ?" 

"Nearly  three  months  ago.  Indeed,  I  remem- 
ber verv  well.  Do  you  think  it  is  likely  I  should 
forget?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  it  was  much  to  yon," 
said  Margaret,  with  an  abstraction  of  tone  which 
prevented  him,  though  very  willing,  from  accept- 
ing this  as  provocative  of  something  like  flirta- 
tion. "It  was  myself  that  I  was  thinking  of, 
and  it  made  me  giddy.  Since  that  time  I  am 
quite  different.     Since  then  I  have  grown  up." 

"I  don't  see  very  much  difference,"  said  Au- 
brey, contemplating  her  with  those  pleased  looks 
of  unspoken  admiration  which  he  knew  did  not 
in  general  afford  an  ungrateful  mode  of  homage. 

"  Oh !  perhaps  I  have  not  grown  much  taller ; 
but  this  is  more  than  tallness.  Do  you  remem- 
ber Earl's-hall,  Mr.  Aubrey  ?  It  is  not  really,  is 
it,  so  very  far  away  ?" 

' '  I  should  not  say  so — about  fifteen  or  sixteen 
hours'  journey,  if  the  railway  went  straight,  with- 
out that  horrid  interval  of  the  Firth." 

"Oh,  that  was  not  what  I  wras  meaning!" 
said  Margaret,  turning  her  head  away  a  little 
coldly.  And  though  he  went  on  talking,  she  did 
not  pay  much  attention.  She  came  home  with 
dreamy  eyes,  and  suffered  him  to  lift  her  off  her 
horse,  and  went  straight  up  to  her  room,  leaving 
him.  They  had  not  ridden  quite  so  far  as  they 
intended,  and  the  ladies  had  not  got  home  from 
their  drive. 

As  Margaret  went  up-stairs,  carrying  her  train 
over  her  arm,  she  met  Miss  Parker,  her  poor  re- 
lation, on  the  stairs,  who  gave  a  jump  at  the  sight 
of  her,  and  uttered  a  cry. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  were  a  ghost!" 
she  said. 

"  Why  should  I  be  a  ghost  ?  I  don't  feel  like 
a  ghost.  Come  in  and  tell  me,"  said  Margaret, 
opening  the  door  of  her  room.  Miss  Parker  had 
palpitations,  and  this  was  quite  enough  to  bring 
one  of  them  on. 

"I  never  thought  you  were  like  your  poor 
mamma  before,"  cried  the  house-keeper  in  her 
agitation,  "  not  a  bit  like.  You  are  just  like  the 
Leslies,  not  her  features  at  all ;  but  in  that  habit, 
and  in  the  very  same  hat  and  feathers  ! "  Mar- 
garet took  off  her  hat  at  these  words,  and  Miss 
Parker  breathed  a  little  more  freely.  "Ah, 
that  is  better,  that  is  not  so  startling.  You  were 
as  like  her,  as  like  her — " 

"  Why  should  not  I  be  like  her?  Poor  mam- 
ma, it  is  hard  upon  her  having  nothing  but  me 
to  leave  in  the  world,  that  I  should  be  so  unkind 
as  not  to  be  like  her,"  said  Margaret,  musing, 
half  thinking  through  the  midst  of  this  conver- 
sation how  strange  it  was  that  Earl's-hall  should 
seem  so  very  far  away. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


119 


"I  remember  her  as  well  as  if  it  were  yester- 
day," said  Miss  Parker,  "coming  up  that  very 
stair  after  her  last  ride  with — oh,  I  should  not 
speak  of  him  to  you  !  It  was  before  she  had  ever 
seen  Sir  Ludovic,  your  papa." 

"Her  last  ride  with  —  whom?"  Margaret's 
cheeks  grew  crimson.  Somehow  it  seemed  to 
be  half  herself  about  whom  she  was  hearing — 
herself  in  her  mother. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  I  don't  know  if  I  ought  to 
tell  you  all  that  story.  They  were  a  sort  of 
cousins,  as  I  was  to  them  both.  He  had  no 
money,  poor  fellow  ;  but  otherwise  so  suitable  ! 
just  of  an  age,  brought  up  much  the  same — and 
she  was  an  heiress,  if  he  had  nothing.  They 
tried  to  put  it  into  her  head  that  he  was  not  good 
enough  for  her.  And  then  they  put  it  into  his 
head  (they  succeeded  there)  that  a  man  ought 
not  to  owe  his  living  to  his  wife.  So  he  would 
go  away,  let  her  say  what  she  pleased.  Oh,  I 
remember  that  night  when  they  took  their  last 
ride  together.  She  came  up-stairs  and  met  me 
in  her  riding-habit,  in  just  such  a  hat  and  feath- 
ers, and  her  face  pale  with  thinking,  like  yours, 
my  dear.  She  changed  color,  too,  like  you  (ah, 
there  it  goes!),  all  in  a  moment  changing  from 
white  to  red." 

"And  what  happened,"  cried  Margaret, 
breathless. 

"Well,  my  dear,  nothing  more  than  this  hap- 
pened— He  went  away.  He  went  to  India 
with  his  regiment;  he  thought  he  might  get  on 
there,  perhaps,  and  get  his  promotion,  and  come 
back  for  her  (she  was  not  of  age  then).  But  he 
never  came  back,  poor  fellow  —  he  died  in  less 
than  a  year." 

"And  she — she?"  Margaret  became  breath- 
less with  anxiety  and  interest.  She  had  not 
known  her  mother  had  any  story ;  and  how 
strange  it  was — half  as  if  it  might  be  herself! 

"She  felt  it  very  much,  my  dear.  She  put  on 
mourning  for  him — indeed,  she  had  to  do  that, 
for  he  was  her  cousin.  Memorial  windows  were 
just  coming  into  fashion,  and  she  put  up  a  win- 
dow to  his  memory  in  the  church.  Well,  then ! 
after  a  while,  she  went  to  Scotland,  and  met  with 
Sir  Ludovic.  He  was  not  young,  but  he  was  a 
most  striking-looking  gentleman — and — well,  I 
need  not  tell  you  any  more.  You  know,  as  well 
as  I  can  tell  you,  that  he  was  your  papa." 

"Poor  papa!"  said  Margaret,  her  eyes  filling, 
though  she  had  said  "  poor  mamma"  a  moment 
before.     "  Did  she  care  for  him  at  all  2" 

"Oh,  my  dear!  she  was  in  love  with  him,  a 
great  deal  more  in  love  with  him  than  she  ever 
was  with  poor  Edward.  She  would  have  him. 
Of  course  it  was  pointed  out  to  her  that  he  was 
poor,  too,  and  living  so  far  away,  and  a  Scotch- 
man, which  is  almost  like  a  foreigner,  and  quan- 
tities of  poor  relations.  She  must  have  liked 
him  more  than  she  did  poor  Edward,  for  she 
would  not  listen,  not  for  a  moment;  even  when 
it  was  said  that  he  was  old,  she  cried,  '  What  do 
I  care?'  Oh,  you  must  not  think  there  was  any 
doubt  on  that  point.  She  was  very  fond  of  your 
papa.  That  is  poor  Edward's  picture  in  the  cor- 
ner," said  Miss  Parker,  crying  a  little,  "  he  never 
had  eyes  for  any  one  when  she  was  there  ;  but 
he  was  my  cousin  too." 

Margaret  got  up  tremulously,  and  went  to 
look  at  the  portrait.  It  was  a  feeble  little  water- 
color  :  a  young  man  in  a  coat  which  had  once 


been  intended  to  be  red,  but  which  had  become 
the  palest  of  pink.  When  she  looked  at  his  in- 
significant good-looking  features,  she  could  not 
but  remember  her  father's  with  a  glow  of  pride. 
But  Miss  Parker  was  crying  sofily  in  the  corner 
of  the  sofa.  Why  does  it  always  happen  that 
people  are  at  cross -purposes  in  loving?  Miss 
Parker  would  have  been  very  happy  with  Ed- 
ward :  why  was  it  not  she  but  the  other  whom 
the  young  soldier  loved  ?  It  made  Margaret  sad 
to  think  of  it.  And  then  all  at  once  there  came 
into  her  mind,  like  a  pebble  cast  into  tranquil 
water,  Rob  Glen.  Something  in  the  features  of 
poor  Edward,  who  had  died  in  the  jungle,  re- 
called Rob  to  her  mind.  Her  heart  began  to 
beat.  Perhaps,  no  doubt,  there  was  some  one 
who  would  be  very  happy  to  have  Rob,  who  would 
think  him  the  noblest  man  in  existence.  And 
Margaret  gave  a  little  shiver.  Suddenly  it  came 
to  her  mind  with  overpowering  force  that,  not- 
withstanding all  these  changes,  notwithstanding 
the  difference  in  herself,  notwithstanding  the 
Grange  and  all  its  novel  life,  she,  this  new  Mar- 
garet, who  was  so  different  from  the  old  Marga- 
ret, was  bound  to  Rob  Glen.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  never  understood  the  position  be- 
fore. Miss  Parker  had  gone  away  crying,  poor, 
sentimental,  middle-aged  lady  !  and  Margaret 
sat  down  on  the  sofa  when  she  had  left  it,  with 
dismay  in  her  heart,  and  gazed  at  Edward's  wa- 
ter-color with  blank  discomfiture.  There  seemed 
to  rise  before  her  the  little  parlor  in  the  farm — 
every  detail  of  its  homely  aspect ;  the  red  and 
blue  cloth  on  the  table,  the  uncomfortable  scratch- 
ing of  the  pen  with  which  she  wrote  her  prom- 
ise, the  bit  of  paper  smoothed  out  by  Mrs.  Glen's 
hand,  the  little  common  earthenware  ink-bottle. 

She  had  not  been  aware  before  that  she  re- 
membered all  these  things ;  but  now  they  start- 
ed to  the  light,  as  if  they  were  things  of  impor- 
tance, all  visible  before  her,  remade.  How  was 
it  possible  that  she  could  have  put  them  all  away 
out  of  her  memory  so  long  ?  She  had  thought 
of  him  now  and  then,  chiefly  with  compunctions, 
feeling  herself  ungrateful  to  him  who  had  been 
so  kind.  But  it  was  not  with  any  compunction 
now  that  she  remembered  him,  but  with  sudden 
alarm  and  sense  of  an  incongruity  beyond  all 
words.  Supposing  Edward  had  not  died,  but 
had  come  back  from  the  jungle  after  her  moth- 
er had  met  Sir  Ludovic,  what  would  she  have 
thought?  how  would  she  have  felt?  would  she 
have  welcomed  him  or  fled  from  him  ?  But  then 
I — have  never  seen — any  one,  Margaret  said  to 
herself.  She  blushed,  though  she  was  alone. 
There  was  nothing  in  that — her  color  was  al- 
ways coming  and  going — and  even  this  momen- 
tary change  of  sentiment  relieved  her  a  little. 
The  horror  was  to  have  remembered,  all  of  a 
sudden,  in  this  calm  and  quiet — Rob  Glen. 

When  such  a  sudden  revelation  as  this  occurs, 
it  is  astonishing  how  heaven  and  earth  concur 
to  keep  the  impression  up.  Next  evening  their 
dinner  was  more  lively  than  usual.  To  keep 
Aubrey  company  over  his  wine,  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham  had  invited  Mr.  St.  John,  the  young  rector 
(though  they  were  in  such  deep  mourning,  your 
parish  clergyman  is  never  out  of  place,  he  is  not 
company),  to  dine  with  them  ;  and  there  was  a 
little  more  care  than  usual  about  the  flowers  on 
the  table  (since  the  garden-flowers  were  exhaust- 
ed, Jean  had  restricted  the  article  of  flowers), 


120 


THE  PKIMKOSE  PATH. 


and  a,  more  elaborate  meal  than  was  ever  put 
upon  the  table  for  the  three  ladies.  Mr.  St. 
John  was  High-Church,  and  had  been  supposed 
to  incline  toward  celibacy  for  the  clergy,  but  of 
late  his  principles  had  been  wavering.  The  elder 
ladies  at  the  Grange  had  given  him  no  rest  on 
the  subject ;  they  had  declared  the  idea  to  be 
Popish,  infidelistic,  heathen.  Not  marry  ?  Grace 
in  particular  had  almost  wept  over  this  strange 
theory.  What  was  to  become  of  a  parish  with- 
out a  lady  to  look  after  it ;  and  by  this  time  Mr. 
St.  John  had  been  considerably  moved  by  one 
of  two  things,  either  by  the  arguments  of  Mrs. 
Bellingham  and  Miss  Leslie,  or  by  the  consider- 
ation that  the  Grange  was  very  near  the  recto- 
ry; that  it  was  a  very  nice  little  property,  the 
largest  house  in  the  parish,  its  inhabitants  the 
most  important  family  ;  and  that  its  heiress  was 
eighteen,  and  very  pretty,  though  brought  up  a 
Presbyterian,  and  probably,  therefore,  quite  un- 
regenerate,  and  as  good  as  unbaptized.  He  sat 
opposite  Margaret  at  the  table,  while  Aubrey 
Bellingham  sat  by  her,  and  the  young  priest  felt 
an  unchristian  warmth  of  enmity  arise  in  his 
bosom  toward  the  stranger.  But  this  put  him 
on  his  mettle,  and  the  talk  was  very  lively  and 
sometimes  amusing ;  it  made  Margaret  forget 
the  fright  of  recollection  that  had  seized  her. 
The  two  young  men  remained  but  a  very  short 
time  in  the  dining-room  after  the  ladies  had  left, 
and  Mr.  St.  John  had  just,  managed  to  get  pos- 
session of  a  seat  beside  Margaret  and  to  resume 
the  question  of  the  Celtic  music,  which  he  had 
so  skilfully  hit  upon  at  one  of  their  earlier  meet- 
ings, as  a  subject  sure  to  interest  her,  when  an  in- 
cident occurred  that  threw  back  all  her  thoughts 
vividly  into  their  former  channel. 

"Don't  you  think  that  the  invariably  pathetic 
character  of  their  music  reflects  the  leading  ten- 
dency of  the  race?"  Mr.  St.  John  had  just  said; 
and  she  was  actually  making  what  she  felt  to  be 
a  very  foolish  answer. 

"I  have  heard  the  pipes  playing,"  she  was 
saying,  "  but  not  often  ;  and  except  reels,  I  don't 
know  any —    Did  you  call  me,  Jean  ?" 

"Here  is  a  parcel  for  you,  a  large  parcel  by 
the  railway,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "Yes,  real- 
ly; it  is  not  for  me,  as  I  thought,  but  for  you, 
Margaret.  What  can  it  be,  I  wonder?  It  has 
got  Edinburgh  on  the  ticket,  and  a  great  many 
other  marks.  Bland,  will  you  please  undo  it 
carefully,  and  take  away  all  the  brown  paper 
and  wrappings.  I  dare  say  it  is  a  present,  Mar- 
garet ;  it  looks  to  me  like  a  present.  I  should 
say  it  was  a  picture ;  perhaps  something  Ludovic 
may  have  sent  you  from  Eai Ts-hall.  Was  there 
any  picture  you  were  fond  of  that  can  have  been 
sent  to  you  from  Earl's-hall  ?" 

"Dearest  Margaret,  it  will  be  one  of  the  por- 
traits. How  kind  of  dear  Ludovic  to  think  of 
you.  Surely  you  have  a  right  to  it,"  said  Miss 
Leslie  ;  and  even  the  young  men  drew  near  with 
the  lively  curiosity  which  such  an  arrival  always 
creates.  The  very  name  of  picture  made  Mar- 
garet tremble ;  she  approached  the  large  white 
square  which  Bland  —  Jean's  most  respectable 
servant  —  had  carefully  freed  from  the  rough 
sheets  of  card-board  and  brown  paper  in  which  it 
had  been  so  carefully  packed,  with  the  thrill  of 
a  presentiment.  Miss  Leslie's  fingers  quivered 
with  impatience  to  cut  the  last  string,  to  unfold 
the  last  enclosure,  but  a  heroic  sense  of  duty  to 


Margaret  kept  her  back.  It  was  Margaret's  par- 
cel :  she  it  was  who  had  the  right  to  disclose  the 
secret,  to  have  the  first  exquisite  flutter  of  dis- 
covery. Grace  knew  the  value  of  these  little 
sensations  against  the  gray  background  of  mo- 
notonous life.  But  it  seemed  to  Margaret  that 
she  knew  what  it  was,  even  although  she  had  no 
recollection  for  the  moment  what  it  could  be. 
She  unfolded  the  last  cover  with  a  trembling 
hand. 

Ah !  It  was  Earl's-hall,  the  old  house,  exact- 
ly as  it  had  been  that  sunshiny  morning  before 
any  trouble  came — when  little  Margaret,  think- 
ing no  evil,  went  skimming  over  the  furrows  of 
the  potatoes,  running  up  and  down  as  light  as 
air,  hovering  about  the  artist  whose  work  seem- 
ed to  her  so  divine.  What  an  ocean  of  time 
and  change  had  swept  over  her  since  then !  She 
gave  a  tremulous  cry  full  of  wonder  and  anguish, 
as  she  saw  at  a  glance  what  it  was.  They  all 
gathered  round  her,  looking  over  her  shoulder. 
There  it  stood,  with  the  sun  shining  full  upon  it, 
the  old  gray  house :  the  big  ivy  leaves  giving  out 
gleams  of  reflection,  the  light  blazing  upon  Bell's 
white  apron — for  Bell,  too,  was  there  :  he  had 
forgotten  nothing.  Margaret's  heart  gave  a  beat 
so  wild  that  the  little  group  round  her  must  have 
heard  it,  she  thought. 

"Earl's-hall!"  said  both  the  ladies  together. 
"  And,  dear  me,  Margaret,  where  has  this  come 
from  ?"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham ;  "  Ludovic  had 
no  picture  like  this.  It  is  beautifully  mounted, 
and  quite  fresh  and  new;  it  must  be  just  fin- 
ished. It  is  very  pretty.  There  is  the  terrace 
in  the  tower,  you  can  just  make  it  out — and 
there  are  the  windows  of  the  long  room;  and 
there,  I  declare,  is  my  room,  just  a  comer  of  it, 
and  somebody  sitting  at  the  door — why,  it  is 
something  like  Bell!  Who  can  have  sent  you 
such  a  beautiful  present,  Margaret?  Who  can 
it  be  from  ?" 

Margaret  gained  a  little  time  while  her  sister 
spoke ;  but  she  was  almost  too  much  agitated  to 
be  able  to  say  anything,  and  she  did  not  know 
what  to  say. 

"It  was  a  friend,"  she  said,  with  trembling 
lips.  "  It  was  done — before —  It  was  not  fin- 
ished." And  then,  taking  courage  from  desper- 
ation, she  added,  "May  I  take  it  up-stairs?" 

What  so  natural  as  that  she  should  be  over- 
whelmed by  the  sudden  sight  of  her  old  home  ? 
Grace  rushed  to  her  with  open  arms.  "Let  me 
carry  it  for  you ;  let  me  go  with  you,  darling 
Margaret,"  she  said.  But  the  girl  fled  from  her, 
almost  pushing  her  away  in  the  nervous  impa- 
tience of  agitation.  Even  Jean  was  moved.  She 
called  back  her  sister  imperatively,  yet  with  a 
softened  voice. 

"Let  her  alone;  let  her  carry  it  herself. 
Come  here,  Grace,  and  let  the  child  alone,"  said 
Mrs.  Bellingham.  "The  sight  of  the  old  place 
has  been  too  much  for  her,  coming  so  suddenly 
— and  not  much  wonder.  After  all,  it  is  but 
four  months.  But  I  should  like  to  know  who 
did  it,  and  who  sent  it,"  she  added.  That  was 
the  thought  that  was  foremost  with  Aubrey  too. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


121 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

This  incident  completed  the  painful  process 
which  was  going  on  in  Margaret's  mind.  The 
little  visionary  link  of  kindness,  tenderness,  grat- 
itude, which  had  existed  between  herself  and 
Rob  Glen  had  been  really  broken  by  the  shock 
administered  to  her  on  the  evening  when  she 
pledged  herself  to  him  forever  ;  but  she  had  nev- 
er attempted  to  realize  her  feelings,  or  inquire 
into  them — rather  had  been  glad  to  forget  them, 
to  push  away  from  her  and  postpone  all  consid- 
eration of  the  subject  which  all  at  once  had  be- 
come so  painful,  so  full  of  difficulty  and  confu- 
sion. She  had  avoided  even  the  idea  of  any 
communication  with  him.  When  Ludovic  spoke 
to  her  of  correspondence,  it  had  seemed  impos- 
sible that  the  pledge  he  asked  for  could  be  nec- 
essary, or  that  there  should  be  any  question  of 
correspondence.  She  had  never  thought  of  it, 
never  meant  it.  There  was  her  promise  against 
her  which  sometime  or  other  must  be  redeemed. 
There  was  the  fact  that  Rob  had  parted  from 
her  like  a  lover,  a  thing  which  it  now  made  her 
blush  hotly  to  recollect,  but  which  then  had 
seemed  part  of  the  confused  strangeness  of  every- 
thing— a  proof  of  his  "kindness,"  that  kindness 
for  which  she  had  never  been  so  grateful  as  she 
ought  to  have  been.  These  were  appalling  cer- 
tainties which  overshadowed  her  life ;  but  then, 
nothing  could  come  of  them  for  a  long  time,  that 
was  certain ;  three  immense  lifetimes  of  years 
stood  between  her  and  anything  that  could  be 
done  to  her  in  consequence. 

And  how  familiar  we  all  become  with  the 
Damocles  sword  of  an  impending,  but  uncertain 
event !  — Margaret  had  been  able  to  escape  for  a 
long  time,  and  had  put  all  thought  of  it  aside. 
But  her  mother's  story  had  recalled  one  aspect 
of  her  own,  and  here  was  another,  bursting  upon 
her  distinct  and  vivid,  which  could  not  be  pushed 
aside,  which  must  be  faced,  and  even  explained. 
Heaven  help  her!  She  carried  away  the  big 
drawing  in  her  arms,  her  heart  thumping  against 
the  card-board  wildly  with  suffocating  force,  her 
head  throbbing,  her  mind  in  the  most  violent 
commotion.  Had  there  been  nothing  else,  no 
doubt  the  sudden  recalling  of  all  her  thoughts 
to  her  old  home,  without  any  warning,  in  a 
moment,  must  have  had  a  certain  effect  upon 
her.  Even  Jean  had  fully  acknowledged  this. 
It  was  natural  that  she  should  feel  it.  But 
something  much  more  agitating,  something  more 
even  than  the  bewildering  thought  of  all  that 
had  happened  in  the  last  few  weeks  of  her  stay 
at  Earl's-hall,  came  upon  her  with  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  picture.  Recollections  rushed 
upon  her  like  a  torrent,  recollections  even  more 
confusing,  more  painful  than  these.  The  draw- 
ing itself  was  a  memorial  of  the  time  when  there 
was  no  trouble  at  all  involved,  when  Rob,  newly 
discovered,  was  a  curiosity  and  delight  to  the 
young  creature  in  quest  of  something  new,  to 
whom  he  was  a  godsend ;  and  this  it  was  which 
suddenly  came  before  her  now. 

There  is  no  such  anguish  of  retrospection  as 
that  with  which  the  very  young  look  back  upon 
moments  in  which  they  feel  they  have  made 
themselves  ridiculous,  and  given  their  fellow- 
creatures  an  inferior,  inadequate  representation 
of  them.  This  it  was  which  overwhelmed  Mar- 
garet now.     She  had  acquired  a  little  knowl- 


edge, if  from  nothing  else,  from  the  conversation 
of  Mrs.  Bcllingham,  which  had  modified  her  in- 
nocence. She  had  heard  of  girls  who  "flung 
themselves  at  the  heads"  of  men.  She  had 
heard  of  those  who  gave  too  much  "encourage- 
ment," who  "led  on"  reluctant  wooers.  This 
talk  had  passed  lightly  enough  over  her  head, 
always  full  of  dreams ;  but  yet  it  had  left  a  de- 
posit as  so  much  light  talk  does. 

When  first  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  picture,  this 
was  the  thought  that  rushed  upon  her.  Almost 
before  the  ready  tear  had  formed  which  came  at 
the  sight  of  Earl's-hall,  before  the  quick  pang  of 
grief  for  the  loss  of  all  which  the  old  house  rep- 
resented to  her,  before  the  sense  of  fatal  bondage 
and  entanglement  which  was  her  special  burden, 
had  time  to  make  itself  felt — came,  with  a  flood 
of  agony  and  shame,  a  realization  of  herself  as 
she  had  been  when  Rob  Glen  had  seated  him- 
self at  the  end  of  the  potato  field  to  make  this 
drawing. 

Other  things  that  had  happened  to  her  had 
not  involved  any  fault  of  hers ;  she  did  not  even 
feel  that  she  was  seriously  to  blame  for  the  forg- 
ing of  the  chain  that  bound  her — but  this,  this 
had  been  her  own  doing.  She  it  was  who  had 
wooed  him  to  Earl's-hall;  she  had  asked  him 
to  come,  and  to  come  again ;  she  had  persuaded 
him  to  a  hundred  things  he  never  would  have 
thought  of  by  himself.  But  for  her  he  would 
not  have  returned  day  by  day,  getting  more  and 
more  familiar.  When  she  rushed  about  every- 
where for  the  things  he  wanted,  when  she  ad- 
mired everything  he  did  with  such  passionate 
enthusiasm,  when  she  could  hang  over  his  shoul- 
der watching  every  line  he  drew,  what  had  she 
been  doing?  "Elinging  herself  at  his  head," 
"leading  him  on,"  "encouraging  him,"  oh,  and 
more  than  encouraging  him !  as  Ludovic  had 
said.  This  was  worse  even  than  the  bondage  in 
which  it  had  resulted.  Her  face  was  covered 
with  burning  blushes ;  her  soul  overflowed  with 
shame. 

Oh,  how  well  she  recollected  the  ridiculous 
ardor  with  which  she  had  taken  up  her  old  play- 
fellow ;  the  sense  of  some  new  delightful  event 
which  had  come  into  her  life  when  she  met  him, 
and  discovered  his  sketches,  and  appropriated 
him,  as  it  were,  to  her  own  amusement  and  pleas- 
ure '  What  a  change  he  had  made  in  the  child- 
ish monotony  and  quiet !  She  remembered  how 
she  had  brought  him  to  the  house,  how  she  had 
coaxed  her  father  for  him,  how  she  had  fluttered 
about  him  as  he  sat  there  beginning  his  draw- 
ing. If  he  said  he  wanted  anything,  how  she 
flew  to  get  it.  How  she  watched  every  line  over 
his  shoulder ;  how  she  praised  him  with  all  sim- 
ple sincerity.  (Margaret  still  thought  the  pict- 
ure beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  anything  she 
had  ever  seen.)  She  seemed  to  see  herself,  oh, 
so  over-eager,  over-bold,  unmaidenly!  Was  it 
wonderful  that  he  should  think  her  ready  to  do 
everything  he  asked  her — ready  to  make  any 
sacrifice,  to  separate  herself  from  all  belonging 
to  her  for  his  sake  ? 

There  is  always  a  certain  consolation,  a  cer- 
tain power  which  upholds  and  supports,  in  the 
consciousness  of  suffering  for  something  which 
is  not  one's  own  fault.  To  have  been  the  victim 
of  some  wonderful  combination  of  circumstances, 
to  have  been  caught  in  some  snare,  which  all 
your  skill  was  not  able  to  elude,  that  is  far  from 


122 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


being  the  worst  that  can  befall  any  one.  But 
to  see  in  your  conduct  the  germ  of  all  your  suf- 
ferings, to  perceive  how  you  have  yourself  led 
lightly  up,  dancing  and  singing,  to  the  precipice 
over  which  you  are  about  to  be  pitched — this  is 
the  most  appalling  ordeal  of  all.  Margaret  grew 
hot  all  over,  with  a  blush  that  tingled  to  her  fin- 
ger points,  and  seemed  to  scorch  her  from  head 
to  foot.  Whose  fault  was  it,  all  the  self-betrayal 
that  followed,  the  horrible  bond  that  bound  her 
scul,  and  which  she  did  not  even  venture  to 
think  of;  whose  fault  was  it  but  her  own? 

"Margaret,  dear  Margaret,  dearest  Jean  has 
sent  me  to  ask,  are  you  not  coming  down-stairs 
again?  We  all  feel  for  you,  darling — and  oh, 
do  you  think  it  is  nothing  to  us?  Dear  Jean 
puts  great  force  upon  herself,  she  has  such  a 
strong  will,  and  commands  it ;  but  we  all  feel 
the  same.  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  picture  it  is ! 
What  a  dear,  dear  old  house !  How  it  brings 
back  our  youth,  and  dearest,  dearest  papa!" 

Miss  Leslie  put  her  nose  to  the  picture  as  if 
she  would  have  kissed  it.  She  felt  in  the  depths 
of  her  artless  soul  that  this  was  her  duty  to  old 
Sir  Ludovic,  of  whom  poor  Grace  had  known 
little  enough  for  twenty  years  before.  The  tear 
came  quite  easily,  which  she  dried  with  her  white 
handkerchief,  pressing  it  to  her  eyes.  Not  for 
anything  in  the  world  would  she  have  failed  of 
this  duty  to  her  clearest  papa.  Jean  thought 
chiefly  of  crape,  and  was  content  with  that  way 
of  expressing  her  sentiments  ;  but  within  the 
first  year,  within,  indeed,  the  first  six  months, 
to  mention  her  father  without  the  tear  he  had 
a  right  to,  would  have  been  to  Grace  a  cruel 
dereliction  from  natural  duty.  After  a  twelve- 
month, when  the  family  put  off  crape,  it  would 
no  doubt  cease  to  be  necessary — though  always, 
she  felt,  a  right  thing — to  pay  that  tribute  of 
tears. 

Margaret  stood  by,  and  looked  on  with  a 
dreary  helplessness.  She  had  no  tears  for  her 
father,  no  room  for  him  even  in  her  overladen 
and  guilty  soul.  And  this  she  felt  acutely,  with 
a  pang  the  more,  feeling  as  if  all  love  had  died 
out  of  her  heart,  and  nothing  but  darkness  and 
confusion,  and  ingratitude  and  insensibility,  was 
in  her  and  about  her.  She  took  up  the  picture 
with  a  slight  shudder,  as  she  touched  it,  and  put 
it  away  in  the  comer  where  hung  the  faded  por- 
trait of  her  mother's  young  lover. 

This  touch  of  contact  with  the  story  of  one 
who  had  gone  before  her,  whom  somehow — she 
scarcely  knew  how — she  could  not  help  identify- 
ing with  herself,  gave  her  a  little  fanciful  conso- 
lation. Margaret  did  not  long,  as  so  many  girls 
have  done,  to  have  a  mother  to  flee  to,  and  in 
whom  to  confide  all  her  troubles ;  but  it  seemed 
to  her,  in  some  confused  way,  that  it  must  have 
been  but  a  previous  chapter  in  her  own  life,  which 
had  passed  under  this  same  roof,  in  this  same 
house,  twenty  years  ago.  She  seemed  almost 
dimly  to  recollect  it,  as  she  recollected  (but  far 
more  vividly)  that  time  of  folly  in  which  she  had 
"  encouraged  "  and  "  led  on  "  Rob  Glen. 

It  was  better  for  her  to  obey  Jean's  call,  to  go 
down-stairs  and  try  to  forget  it  all,  for  a  mo- 
ment, than  to  stay  here  and  drive  herself  wild, 
wondering  what  he  might  do  next,  and  what,  oh 
what!  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  do. 
Grace,  who  was  a  little  disappointed  not  to  find 
her  dissolved  in   tears,  recommended  that  she 


should  bathe  her  eyes,  and  brought  her  some 
water,  and  took  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  obliterate 
the  traces  of  weeping  which  did  not  exist.  She 
tucked  Margaret's  hand  under  her  arm,  and  pat- 
ted it  and  held  it  fast. 

"My  poor  darling!"  she  said,  cooing  over  the 
unresponsive  girl.  Jean,  too,  who  was  not  given 
to  much  exhibition  of  feeling,  received  her,  when 
she  came  back,  with  something  like  tenderness. 

"Put  a  chair  for  Margaret  by  the  fire,  Au- 
brey," she  said,  "the  child  will  be  cold  coming 
through  all  those  passages ;  that  is  the  worst  of 
an  old  house,  there  are  so  many  passages,  and  a 
draught  in  every  one  of  them.  I  would  not  say 
a  word  against  old  houses,  which  are  of  course 
all  the  fashion,  and  very  picturesque,  and  all  that ; 
but  I  must  say  I  think  you  suffer  from  draughts. 
And  what  good  is  the  fireplace  in  the  hall  ?  the 
heat  all  goes  up  that  big  chimney.  It  does  not 
come  into  the  house  at  all.  I  would  like  hot- 
water  pipes,  but  they  are  a  great  expense,  and 
of  course  you  would  all  tell  me  they  were  out  of 
keeping.  So  is  gas  out  of  keeping.  Oh,  you 
need  not  cry  out;  I  don't  mean  in  the  drawing- 
room,  of  course,  which  is  a  thing  only  done  in 
Scotland,  and  quite  out  of  the  question ;  but  to 
wander  about  those  passages  in  the  dark,  and 
never  to  stir  a  step  without  a  candle  in  your 
hand  !  I  think  it  a  great  trouble,  I  must  allow." 

"  Your  ancestral  home,  Miss  Leslie,"  said  Mr. 
St.  John,  who  had  secured  a  place  in  front  of 
the  fire,  "  must  be  a  true  mediaeval  monument. 
I  am  very  much  interested  in  domestic  architect- 
ure. And  so  I  am  sure  you  must  be,  familiar 
with  two  such  houses — " 

"People  who  possess  old  houses  seldom  care 
for  them,"  said  Aubrey,  taking  up  a  position  on 
the  other  side.  "  You  know  what  my  aunt  says 
about  gas  and  hot-water  pipes.  Tell  me,"  he 
said,  half  whispering,  stooping  over  her,  to  the 
great  indignation  of  the  clergyman,  "what  I 
must  call  you.  I  must  reserve  the  endearing 
title  of  aunt  for  the  family  circle,  but  I  can't  say 
Miss  Leslie,  you  know,  for  you  are  not  Miss 
Leslie ;  and  Margaret,  tout  court,  would  be  a 
presumption." 

"  Everybody  calls  me  Margaret,"  she  said. 

"  That  man  did  at  Killin.  I  felt  disposed  to 
pitch  him  into  the  loch  when  I  heard  him  ;  but 
probably,"  said  Aubrey,  laughing,  "  there  might 
have  been  two  words  to  that,  don't  you  think  ? 
Perhaps,  if  it  had  come  to  a  struggle,  it  would 
have  been  I  who  was  most  likely  to  taste  the 
waters  of  the  loch." 

"Oh,  Randal  is  very  good-natured,"  said  Mar- 
garet, making  an  effort  to  recover  herself,  "and 
perhaps  he  would  not  have  known  what  you 
meant  if  you  had  spoken  about  a  loch.  I  never 
saw  this  house  till  just  a  little  while  ago,"  she 
added  to  Mr.  St.  John,  anxious  to  be  civil.  "I 
never  was  out  of  Fife." 

"And  the  Northern  architecture  is  different 
from  ours ;  more  rude,  is  it  not  ?  I  have  heard 
that  people  often  get  confused,  and  attach  an 
earlier  date  to  a  building  than  it  really  has  any 
right  to." 

"It  is  kind  of  you  to  say  the  man  at  Killin 
was  good-natured,"  said  Aubrey,  on  the  other 
side;  "of  course,  you  think  /would  not  have 
given  him  much  trouble.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
everybody  showed  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
confidence  in  that  man  at  Killin.     He  pretended 


THE  PBIMROSE  PATH. 


123 


to  be  fisliing,  but  he  never  fished.  I  suspect  his 
fishing  related  to — who  shall  we  say — your  little 
cousin?  Nay,  I  am  making  a  mistake  again;  I 
always  forget  that  you  belong  to  the  previous 
generation — your  niece." 

"Effie!"  cried  Margaret,  completely  ronsed, 
so  great  was  her  surprise.  "Oh!  but  it  was 
always — it  was  never — Effie — "  Here  she  made 
a.  pause,  bewildered,  and  caught  Mr.  St.  John's 
eye.  "Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  cried,  with  a 
sudden  blush ;  "  I — don't  know  about  architect- 
ure. I  have  not  had — very  much  education,"  she 
answered,  looking  piteously  at  her  sisters  for  aid. 

"Oh,  dearest  Jean!  I  think  I  must  really  go 
and  tell  Mr.  St.  John — " 

"Hold  your  tongue!"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham, 
holding  her  sister  fast  by  her  dress ;  "  let  the 
child  make  it  out  for  herself.  Do  you  think 
they  mind  about  her  education  ?  Who  cares  for 
education?  Men  always  like  a  girl  to  know 
nothing.  Just  keep  out  of  the  way  and  stop 
meddling." 

This  aside  was  inaudible  to  the  group  round 
the  fire ;  though  Mr.  St.  John's  admirable  enun- 
ciation made  all  he  said  quite  distinct  to  them, 
and  Mrs.  Eellingham's  sharp  ears  were  very  con- 
scious of  Aubrey's  whispering — which  was  ill- 
bred,  but  of  no  effect — on  the  other  side  of  Mar- 
garet's chair. 

Mr.  St.  John  gave  a  little  laugh  of  respectful 
derision  and  flattery. 

"  In  the  present  age  of  learned  ladies  it  is 
quite  a  relief  to  hear  such  a  statement,"  he  said, 
"though  I  should  not  like  to  trust  in  your 
want  of  education.  But  this  country  is  very 
rich  architecturally,  and  I  should  be  delighted 
to  offer  my  humble  services  as  cicerone.  I 
should  like  to  convert  you  to  the  pure  English 
Elizabethan — " 

"  It  must  have  been  Miss  Effie,"  said  Aubrey ; 
"who  else?  for  Aunt  Grace,  though  charming — 
And  it  stands  to  reason  that  a  man  who  says  he 
has  gone  to  a  certain  place  for  fishing,  yet  never 
touches  a  rod,  must  have  ulterior  motives.  And 
Aunt  Jean  is  of  opinion  that  these  two  would 
make  a  very  pretty  pair." 

Why  Aubrey  said  this  it  would  be  hard  to 
tell;  whether  from  malice,  as  meaning  to  prick 
her  into  annoyance,  or  whether  out  of  simple 
mischief,  anyhow  it  roused  Margaret. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know  if  Jean  would  care — I 
am  sure  you  are — very  kind,"  she  said,  vacantly, 
to  Mr.  St.  John ;  then  more  rapidly  to  the  oth- 
er hand:  "I  am  almost  sure  you  are  mistaken. 
Neither  Jean  nor  Effie  knew  Bandal — that  is,  to 
call  knowing;  he  was  —  quite  a  stranger.  I 
don't  think  he  knew  Effie  at  all." 

"These  are  just  the  most  favorable  circum- 
stances for  a  flirtation,"  said  Aubrey;  "but 
look,  they  are  all  on  the  alert,  and  Aunt  Jean  is 
making  signs  to  me.  It  is  evident  they  mean 
you  to  talk  to  him,  not  me.  When  he  goes 
away,  let  us  return  to  Miss  Effie  and  the  man  at 
Killin." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  them !"  cried 
Margaret — here  at  least  there  was  nothing  to 
make  her  shrink  from  Jean's  inspection ;  she 
said  this  quite  out  loud,  so  that  all  the  company 
heard.  Because  she  had  one  thing  to  conceal, 
was  it  not  natural  that  she  should  take  particular 
pains  to  show  that  there  was  nothing  to  conceal  ? 
She  did  not  want  any  one  to  whisper  to  her. 


And  there  was  besides,  there  could  be  no  doubt, 
a  certain  tone  of  pique  and  provoked  annoyance 
in  Margaret's  voice. 

"I  was  saying,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  mildly, 
"that  in  our  own  church  there  is  a  great  deal 
that  is  interesting ;  and  if  you  would  allow  me 
to  take  you  over  it  some  day,  you  and  Mrs.  Bel- 
lingham or  Miss  Leslie,  I  should  not  despair  of 
interesting  you.  Besides,  there  are  so  many  of 
your  ancestors  commemorated  there.  I  hope 
we  may  succeed  in  making  your  mother-country 
very  interesting  to  you,"  he  said,  lowering  his 
tone.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  the  young  cler- 
gyman when  "  that  fellow  "  went  away  from  the 
heiress's  side. 

"  Oh,  I  like  it  very  well,"  Margaret  said. 

"But  I  am  very  ambitious,  Miss  Leslie ;  very 
well  is  indifferent.  I  want  you  to  like  it  more 
than  that;  I  want  you  to  love  it,  to  prefer  it  to 
the  other,"  he  said,  with  fervor  in  his  voice. 
"And  now  I  must  say  good-night."  He  held 
out  his  hand  bending  toward  her,  and  Margaret, 
looking  up,  caught  his  eye :  she  gave  a  little 
start,  and  shrank  backward  at  the  very  moment 
of  giving  him  her  hand.  Why  should  he  look 
like  that — like  him  whom  she  was  so  anxious  to 
forget  ?  She  dropped  his  hand  almost  before 
she  touched  it,  in  the  nervous  tremor  which 
came  over  her.  Why  should  he  look  like  Bob 
Glen  ?  Was  he  in  the  conspiracy  against  her  to 
make  her  remember  ?  She  could  scarcely  keep 
in  a  little  cry  which  rose  to  her  lips  in  her  sud- 
den pain.  Boor  Mr.  St.  John  !  anything  farther 
from  his  mind  than  to  make  her  think  of  any 
other  suitor  could  not  be.  But  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham, who  was  more  clear-sighted,  saw  the  look, 
and  put  an  interpretation  upon  it  of  a  different 
kind.  When  Mr.  St.  John  had  gone,  attended 
to  the  door  by  Aubrey  at  his  aunt's  earnest  re- 
quest, Mrs.  Bellingham  came  and  placed  herself 
where  Mr.  St.  John  had  been,  in  front  of  the 
fire. 

"That  man,"  she  said,  solemnly,  when  he  was 
gone,  "is  after  Margaret  too.  Oh!  you  need 
not  make  such  signs  to  me,  Grace ;  I  know  per- 
fectly well  what  I  am  saying.  I  never  would 
speak  about  lovers  to  girls  in  an  ordinary  way  ; 
the  monkeys  find  out  all  that  for  themselves 
quite  fast  enough — do  you  think  there  is  any- 
thing that  I  could  teach  Effie  on  that  point? 
But  Margaret's  is  a  peculiar  case :  she  ought  to 
know  how  to  distinguish  those  who  are  sincere 
— she  ought  to  know  that  it  is  not  entirely  for 
herself  that  men  make  those  eyes  at  her.  Oh, 
I  saw  him  very  well ;  I  perceived  what  he  meant 
by  it.  You  have  a  very  nice  fortune,  my  dear, 
and  a  very  nice  house,  and  you  will  have  to  pay 
the  penalty  like  others.  You  will  very  soon 
know  the  signs  as  well  as  I  do ;  and  I  can  tell 
you  that  that  man  is  after  you  too." 

"Dearest  Jean!"  said  Grace,  "he  may  be  a 
little  High-Church,  more  high  than  I  approve, 
but  he  is  a  very  nice  young  man.  Whom  could 
Margaret  have  better  than  a  good,  nice-looking, 
young  clergyman  ?  They  are  more  domestic 
and  more  at  home,  and  more  with  their  wives — " 

"Fiddle-faddling  eternally  in  a  drawing- 
room,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham;  "always  in  a 
woman's  way  wherever  she  turns.  No,  my  dear, 
whoever  you  marry,  Margaret,  don't  marry  a 
clergyman  ;  a  man  like  that  always  purring  about 
the  fireside  would  drive  me  mad  in  a  month." 


124 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


"Is  it  St.  John  who  is  in  question?"  said  Au- 
brey, coming  back.  "Was  he  provided  for  my 
amusement  ?  or  is  he  daily  bread  at  the  Grange 
already?  I  don't  see  how  so  pretty-behaved  a 
person  could  drive  any  one  mad ;  he  is  a  great 
deal  safer  than  your  last  j>rotey€,  the  man  at 
Killin." 

"I  don't  mean  to  discuss  such  questions  with 
you,  Aubrey,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham;  "it  is 
late,  and  I  think  if  you  will  light  our  candles  for 
us,  we  will  say  good-night.  And  I  will  go  with 
you,  Margaret,  and  look  at  that  picture  again  ; 
it  was  a  very  pretty  picture.  I  must  have  it 
framed  for  you ;  there  is  a  place  in  the  wainscot 
parlor  where  it  would  hang  very  well.  Who 
did  you  say  sent  it  to  you  ?  or  did  you  tell  me  ? 
I  did  not  know  that  there  ever  was  anybody  at 
Earl's-hall  that  could  draw  so  well." 

"Dear  Jean,"  said  Grace,  thinking  it  a  good 
opportunity  to  appear  in  Margaret's  defence, 
"let  her  alone,  let  the  poor  child  alone  to-night ; 
she  is  too  tired  for  anything.  Are  you  not  too 
tired,  darling  Margaret?  I  am  sure  you  want 
to  go  to  bed." 

"I  hope  I  know  better  than  to  overtire  her," 
said  Jean,  witli  some  offence ;  "there  is  no  need 
for  you  to  come,  Grace.  Where  have  you  put 
the  picture,  Margaret?  Why,  you  have  put  it 
with  its  face  to  the  wall!  Is  that  to  save  it 
from  the  dust,  or  because  you  don't  like  to  see 
it?  My  dear,  I  don't  want  to  be  unkind,  but 
this  is  really  carrying  things  too  far.  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you  have  taken  a  dislike  to  Earl's- 
hall?" 

"No,"  Margaret  said,  under  her  breath; 
though  it  seemed  to  her  that  to  look  at  the 
picture  again  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"And  it  is  a  very  pretty  picture,"  said  Jean, 
turning  it  round  and  sitting  down  on  the  sofa  to 
look  at  it — "  a  very  pretty  picture  !  By-and- 
by  you  will  be  very  glad  to  have  it.  And  who 
was  it  you  said  did  it  ?  I  never  thought  Randal 
Burnside  was  an  artist.  Perhaps  he  got  one 
of  the  people  to  do  it  who  are  always  at  Sir 
Claude's.  But,  my  dear,  if  that  is  so,  I  can't 
let  you  take  a  present  from  a  young  man  like 
Randal  Burnside." 

"It  was  not  Randal" — Margaret  was  eager 
to  clear  him  :  "  he  never  sent  me  anything  in  a 
present ;  he  would  not  think  of  me  at  all.  It 
was — once  when  he  came  to  make  a  picture  of 
papa,  which  is  beautiful —  He  was  a  young 
man  from  the  farm." 

"A  young  man  from  the  farm  !" 

"Rob  Glen,"  said  Margaret,  almost  choked, 
yet  forcing  herself  to  speak.  "Papa  said  he 
might  do  it.  I  did  not  know  anything  about  it, 
but  I  suppose  he  must  have  finished  it ;  and  here 
it  is."  It  seemed  a  simple  statement  enough,  if 
she  had  not  been  so  breathless,  and  changed  col- 
or so  continually,  and  looked  so  haggard  about 
the  eyes. 

Mrs.  Bellingham  heard  this  account  with  a 

"Rob  Glen!"  she  said;  "Rob  Glen!  where 
have  I  heard  the  name  before  ?  Was  it  the  ser- 
vants at  Earl's-hall,  or  was  it  Ludovic,  or — who 
was  it  ?  Papa  said  he  might  do  it  ?  Dear  me ! 
papa  might  have  known  better,  Margaret,  though 
I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  blame  him.  It  will 
have  to  be  paid  for,  I  suppose ;  and  how  very 
strange  it  should  have  been  sent  like  this,  with- 


out a  word !  He  will  send  a  bill,  most  likely. 
How  strange  I  should  not  have  heard  anything 
about  this  artist!  Was  there  any  price  men- 
tioned that  you  remember,  Margaret?  They 
ask  such  sums  of  money  for  one  of  those  trifling 
sketches.  It  is  nice  enough,  but  I  am  sure  it  is 
not  worth  the  half  of  what  we  shall  have  to  give 
for  it.  When  there  is  no  bargain  made  be- 
forehand, it  is  astonishing  the  charges  they  will 
make ;  and  papa  really  had  no  money  for  such 
nonsense:  he  ought  not  to  have  ordered  it ;  but 
perhaps  he  thought  it  would  be  a  gratification  to 
you.  Can  you  remember  at  all,  Margaret,  if 
anything  was  said  about  the  price?" 

"Oh  no,  no — there  was  to  be  no  price.  It 
was  not  like  that.  He  asked  to  do  it,  and  papa 
let  him  do  it.  Nobody  thought  of  any  mon- 
ey." 

"  But,  my  dear !"  said  Jean — "  my  dear !  you 
are  a  little  simpleton ;  but  you  could  not  think,  I 
hope,  of  taking  the  man's  work  and  giving  him 
nothing  for  it?  That  is  out  of  the  question — 
quite  out  of  the  question.  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham.  The  words 
seemed  to  penetrate  through  all  Margaret's  be- 
ing. She  trembled,  notwithstanding  all  her  ef- 
forts to  control  herself.  What  could  she  reply  ? 
Take  a  man's  work  and  give  him  nothing  for  it ; 
but  it  was  not  money  that  Rob  would  take. 

"Of  course  it  could  not  be  expected  that  you 
should  know  anything  of  business,"  said  Jean, 
"and  poor  papa  was  already  feeling  ill,  perhaps, 
and  out  of  his  ordinary  way.  I  dare  say  a  letter 
will  come  by  the  next  post  to  explain  it.  And 
if  not,  you  must  give  me  the  young  man's  ad- 
dress, and  I  will  write  and  ask,  or  we  might 
send  word  to  Ludovic.  Aubrey  is  a  very  good 
judge  of  such  things ;  we  can  ask  Aubrey  to- 
morrow what  he  thinks  the  value  should  be. 
Now,  Margaret,  you  are  trembling  from  head  to 
foot — you  are  as  white  as  a  sheet ;  you  have  a 
nervous  look  about  your  eyes  that  it  always 
frightens  me  to  see.  My  dear,  what  is  to  be- 
come of  you,"  cried  Jean,  "if  you  let  every  little 
thing  upset  you  ?  It  was  in  the  course  of  nature 
that  we  should  lose  papa — he  was  an  old  man ; 
and,  I  believe,  though  he  was  never  a  man  who 
talked  much  about  religion,  that  he  was  well 
prepared.  And  as  for  Earl's-hall,  you  would  not 
grudge  that  to  Ludovic  ?  It  is  his  right  as  the 
only  son.  It  shows  great  weakness,  my  dear, 
both  of  body  and  mind,  that  you  should  be  upset 
like  this  only  by  a  picture  of  Earl's-hall." 

Margaret  listened  with  all  that  struggle  of 
conflicting  feelings  which  produces  hysteria  in 
people  unused  to  control  themselves.  The  chok- 
ing in  the  throat,  the  burning  of  those  unshed 
tears  about  her  eyes,  the  trouble  in  her  heart, 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  could  not 
make  any  reply.  She  could  not  even  see  her 
sister's  face ;  the  room  reeled  round  with  her ; 
everything  grew  dark.  To  save  her  balance, 
she  threw  herself  suddenly  upon  the  firm  figure 
before  her,  clutching  at  Jean's  support,  throwing 
her  arms  round  her  with  a  movement  of  despera- 
tion. Few  people  had  ever  clung  wildly  to  Mrs. 
Bellingham  in  moments  of  insufferable  emotion. 
She  was  quite  overcome  by  this  involuntary  ap- 
peal to  her.  She  took  her  young  sister  into  her 
arms,  all  unconscious  of  the  cause  of  her  misery, 
and  caressed  and  soothed  her,  and  stayed  by  her 
till  she  had  calmed  down,  and  was  able  to  es- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


12." 


cnpe  from  her  trouble  in  bed.  Jean  believed  in 
bed  as  a  cure  for  most  evils. 

"You  must  not  give  way,"  she  said — "in- 
deed, my  dear,  you  must  not  give  way ;  but  a 
good  night's  sleep  will  be  the  best  thing  for  you  ; 
lie  still  and  rest." 

"What  a  tender-hearted  thing  it  is!"  she 
said,  going  down -stairs  again  for  a  last  word 
with  Aubrey,  after  this  agitating  task  was  over. 
"I  declare  she  has  quite  upset  me,  too;  though 
it  is  scarcely  possible,  after  being  so  long  away 
from  home,  that  I  could  feel  as  she  does.  She 
is  a  great  deal  too  feeling  for  her  own  comfort. 
But,  Aubrey,  you  must  not  lose  your  time,  my 
dear  boy  ;  you  must  push  on.  It  would  be  the 
greatest  '  divert '  to  her,  as  they  say  in  Scotland, 
if  you  could  only  get  her  to  fall  in  love  with  you. 
I  have  the  greatest  confidence  in  falling  in  love." 

"And  so  have  I — when  they  will  do  it,"  said 
Aubrey,  puffing  out  a  long  plume  of  smoke  from 
his  cigar. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Curiously  enough,  Margaret's  first  thought, 
when  she  woke  in  the  morning,  was  not  of  the 
picture  nor  of  all  the  consequences  which  it 
seemed  to  threaten.  Sometimes  the  most  tri- 
fling matter  will  thrust  itself  in,  before  those 
giant  cares,  which  generally  wait  by  our  bed- 
sides, to  surprise  us  when  we  first  open  our  eyes. 
And  the  first  thing  she  thought  of,  strangely 
enough,  was  Aubrey's  suggestion  of  last  night — 
Effie  !  What  could  he  mean  by  it  ?  Eftie  had 
been  his  own  companion,  not  Randal's.  Randal 
had  not  walked  or  talked  with,  or  sought  any 
one,  except —  It  was  very  strange,  indeed,  how 
any  one  could  suppose  that  Effie —  He  did  not 
know  her.  Of  all  the  party,  the  one  he  knew 
best  was  certainly  herself.  She  must  certainly 
be  best  aware  of  what  his  feelings  were — of  what 
he  had  been  thinking  about!  It  annoyed  her  to 
think  that  Aubrey  should  have  so  little  percep- 
tion, should  know  so  little  about  it,  though  Jean 
had  such  confidence  in  him.  There  was  a  little 
irritation  in  her  mind  about  this  point,  which 
quite  pushed  to  the  front  and  made  itself  appear 
more  important  than  it  was.  She  could  not  help 
making  a  little  survey  of  the  circumstances,  of 
all  that  had  happened — and  it  had  just  occurred 
to  her  to  recollect  the  offer  of  service  and  help 
that  Randal  had  made  her.  This  had  made  her 
half  smile  at  the  moment,  and  since  then  she 
had  smiled  more  than  once  at  the  idea  that  she 
could  want  his  help.  She  had  said,  "Jean  will 
manage  everything ;"  and  yet  he  had  said  it  with 
fervid  meaning,  with  a  look  of  anxious  concern. 

Ah !  she  sprang  up  in  her  bed,  and  clasped 
her  hands  together.  The  occasion  had  come ; 
but  she  could  not  consult  Randal,  nor  any  one. 
She  must  struggle  through  it  by  herself,  as  best 
she  could,  holding  her  peace,  saying  nothing. 
That  was  the  only  safety  for  her.  But  Marga- 
ret was  surprised  to  find  that  when  she  turned 
the  picture  round  again,  and  looked  at  it  trem- 
bling, as  though  it  had  been  capable  of  doing 
her  bodily  harm,  she  did  not  feel  so  much  power 
in  it  as  she  had  done  the  day  before.  It  did  not 
sting  her  the  second  time.  She  looked  at  it  al- 
most tranquilly,  seeing  in  it  no  dreadful  accuser, 
bringing  before  her  all  her  own  past  levity  and 


folly,  but  only  a  memorial  of  a  time  and  a  place 
which  indeed  made  her  heart  beat  with  keen 
emotion  and  with  pain,  but  not  with  the  over- 
whelming, sickening  passion  of  misery  which 
had  been  like  death  to  her  last  night. 

She  could  not  understand  how  this  was,  for 
the  circumstances  had  not  changed  in  any  way; 
and  there  was  still  evidently  before  her  the  diffi- 
culty of  making  Jean  understand  how  it  was 
that  this  picture  could  be  accepted  without  pay- 
ment, and  keeping  her,  energetic  as  she  was, 
from  interfering  in  her  own  person.  There  was 
still  this  difficulty ;  and  all  that  made  the  future 
so  alarming,  the  dread  of  other  surprises  that 
might  follow  this,  was  undiminished  ;  but  yet, 
instead  of  turning  the  picture  to  the  wall  again, 
in  sick  horror  of  it  and  fear  of  it  as  of  a  ghost, 
Margaret  left  it  in  the  recess,  uncovered,  the 
corner  of  the  broad  rim  of  white  touching  the 
little  faded  water -color  portrait.  That  touch 
gave  her  a  certain  soothing  and  consolation.  It 
was  not  the  same  kind  of  trouble  as  her  own ; 
probably  the  other  girl  who  had  been  engaged 
to  that  poor  fellow  without  loving  him  had  not 
been  at  all  to  blame ;  but  yet  there  his  portrait 
stood,  a  memorial  of  other  uneasy  thoughts  that 
had  gone  on  in  this  same  chamber.  Probably 
she  blamed  herself  too,  though  not  as  Margaret 
was  doing.  But  certainly,  anyhow,  she  must 
have  sat  thinking,  and  cried  in  the  same  corner 
of  that  sofa,  and  looked  at  the  pale  painted  face. 
Margaret  leaned  the  cause  of  her  trouble  against 
the  frame  of  that  dead  and  gone  one,  which  the 
other  girl  had  lived  through,  and  felt  that  there 
was  consolation  in  the  tomb.  What  so  vision- 
ary, so  painful,  so  foolish  even,  that  will  not 
console  at  eighteen  when  it  happens  to  offer  a 
parallel  to  our  own  distresses  ? 

And  it  was  with  renewed  courage  and  a  great 
deal  more  composure  than  she  could  have  hoped 
for,  that  Margaret  went  down-stairs.  They  all 
came  to  meet  her  with  kindly  questions  how  she 
was.  "But  I,  for  one,  think  it  quite  unneces- 
sary to  put  any  such  question,"  said  Aubrey. 
He  looked  at  her  with  a  lingering  look  of  pleas- 
ure. He  did  not  object  to  Margaret.  She  was 
not  "his  style;"  but  still  he  did  not  object  to 
her,  and  this  morning  he  admired  her,  as  she 
came  down-stairs  in  her  morning  freshness,  her 
black  dress  bringing  out  the  delicate  tints  of  her 
complexion.  Jean  had  told  him  that  he  had 
better  lose  no  time ;  and  the  fact  of  Mr.  St. 
John's  evident  intentions  had  quickened  Au- 
brey's. The  good  which  another  man  was  try- 
ing to  secure  became  more  valuable  in  his  eyes. 
She  was  certainly  very  pretty,  he  said  to  himself, 
a  delicate  little  creature,  like  a  pale  rose  —  not 
altogether  a  white  rose,  but  that  delicate  blush 
which  is  not  definable  by  any  vulgar  name  of 
color ;  and  her  silky  hair  was  piquant  among  all 
the  frizzy  unkempt  heads  that  were  more  fash- 
ionable. On  the  whole,  he  had  not  the  least  ob- 
jection to  make  what  "running"  he  could  for 
Margaret.  She  was  worth  winning,  with  her 
beautiful  old  house,  and  her  pretty  little  income, 
though  she  was  not  quite  his  style. 

"  Here  is  a  fat  letter  for  you,"  he  said  ;  "  we 
have  all  been  grumbling  over  our  letters.  Aunt 
Jean,  I  think,  would  like  to  read  them  all,  to 
see  if  they  were  fit  to  be  delivered  to  us ;  she 
takes  all  the  charge  of  our  moral  as  well  as  of 
our  physical  well-being.     I  saw  her  look  at  this 


126 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


very  narrowly,  as  if  she  had  the  greatest  mind 
to  break  the  seal.  That  is  of  course  a  figure  of 
speech  nowadays.  I  mean  to  open  the  enve- 
lope ;  it  is  very  fat  and  tempting  to  the  curious 
spectator.  I  should  like  myself  to  know  what 
was  in  it;  it  must  be  from  some  dear  confiden- 
tial young  lady  friend." 

Margaret  looked  at  the  letter  with  a  little 
thrill  of  alarm.  She  did  not  get  many  letters, 
and  every  one  that  came  was  a  slight  excite- 
ment ;  but  when  she  had  looked  at  it  she  laid  it 
down  very  calmly.  "It  is  from  Bell,"  she  said. 
She  knew  very  well  what  Bell  would  say  to  her. 
She  would  tell  her  about  the  brown  cow  and  the 
chickens,  and  how  John  was  with  his  rheuma- 
tism ;  and  there  was  no  great  hurry  to  read  it 
for  a  few  minutes,  until  they  had  ceased  to  take 
so  much  notice  of  her.  Margaret  knew  that 
after  a  minute  or  two  her  sisters  would  be  fully 
occupied  with  their  own  concerns. 

"Aubrey  is  talking  nonsense,  Margaret,  as 
he  generally  does,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham. 
"The  idea  that  I  would  open  anybody's  letter! 
not  but  what  I  think  it  a  very  right  thing  of 
young  people  to  show  their  letters  to  their  par- 
ents, or  to  those  who  stand  in  the  place  of 
parents ;  it  shows  a  right  sort  of  confidence, 
and  I  confess,  for  my  part,  I  always  like  to  see 
it ;  but  I  am  not  the  sort  of  person  that  would 
ever  force  confidence.  It  is  nothing,  I  always 
say,  unless  it  comes  spontaneously.  I  wonder 
if  Bell  will  tell  you  anything  about  that  picture 
that  arrived  last  night,  Margaret!  I  saw  your 
letter  was  from  Bell,  and  that  is  what  made  me 
look  at  it,  as  Aubrey  says,  though  he  always 
exaggerates.  Of  course,  I  knew  Bell  and  you 
had  no  secrets,  Margaret.  I  really  think  if  you 
had  been  out  of  the  way  I  should  have  done 
violence  to  my  own  feelings  and  gone  the  length 
of  opening  it,  just  to  see  if  there  was  anything 
to  explain  what  that  young  man  could  mean  by 
sending  it  without  a  word." 

"Oh!"  said  Aubrey,  "it  was  a  young  man, 
then,  was  it,  who  made  the  drawing?  it  is  satis- 
factory to  know  that  it  was  a  young  man." 

"Why  is  it  satisfactory  to  know  that  he  is  a 
young  man  ?  I  can't  say  that  I  see  that  at  all ; 
it  is  neither  satisfactory  nor  unsatisfactory :  it  is 
not  a  person  in  our  condition  of  life,  so  that  it 
does  not  matter  in  the  least  to  Margaret.  Why 
do  you  say  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  he  is  a 
young  man  ?" 

"Well,  because  then  there  is  hope  that  he 
will  do  better  when  he  is  older,"  said  Aubrey. 
"  You  all  seemed  to  like  it  so  much  that  I  did 
not  venture  to  say  anything ;  but  it  is  not  great 
in  point  of  art.  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  a  most 
faithful  representation  of  the  place,  but  it  is 
nothing  to  speak  of,  you  know,  in  the  point  of 
art. " 

"Oh,  really,  do  you  think  so  ?"  cried  Mrs. 
Bellingham;  "then  you  would  not  think  it 
worth  a  very  high  price,  Aubrey?  I  am  very 
glad  of  that — for  I  thought  we  might  be  obliged 
to  offer  a  large  sum — " 

"It  is  a  beautiful  picture,"  said  Margaret, 
hotly;  she  could  not  bear  anything  to  be  said 
against  this  rooted  belief  of  hers :  its  presence 
alarmed  and  troubled  her,  but  she  would  not 
have  it  undervalued.  "If  it  were  to  be  sold  it 
would  be  worth  a  great  deal  of  money — it  is  a 
beautiful  picture ;    but  there  is  nothing  about 


selling  it,"  she  cried,  a  flush  rising  into  her 
cheeks.  "  It  was  done  for — papa :  money  would 
not  buy  it — and  him  that  painted  it  was  not 
thinking  about  money."  Her  pronouns,  poor 
child,  were  wrong,  but  her  heart  was  right. 
Rob  Glen  was  her  greatest  terror  on  earth,  but 
she  would  be  just  to  him  all  the  same. 

"But  that  is  just  what  I  cannot  be  satisfied 
about,"  said  Jean.  "If  you  pay  a  man  for  his 
work,  why  there  you  are !  but  if  you  don't  pay 
him,  or  give  him  anything  as  an  equivalent, 
why  where  are  you  ?  Every  man  must  be  paid 
one  way  or  another.  Open  Bell's  letter,  Mar- 
garet, and  tell  me  if  she  says  anything  about  it. 
I  shall  have  to  write  to  Ludovic,  or  to  the  young 
man  himself,  if  we  do  not  know  what  he 
means." 

Margaret  opened  Bell's  letter  with  a  hand 
that  trembled  a  little.  She  did  not  expect  to 
find  anything  there  on  the  subject  which  had  so 
deeply  occupied  her ;  but  still,  to  open  this  thick 
enclosure  before  Jean,  whose  mind  was  so  much 
set  upon  it  that  something  was  to  be  found 
there,  and  who  would  watch  her  while  she  read 
it,  and  ask  to  see  Bell's  humble  epistle,  was 
very  alarming.  She  opened  it  with  a  tremulous- 
ness  which  she  could  scarcely  disguise.  Bell 
had  folded  her  letter,  which  was  written  on  a 
large  sheet  of  paper,  in  the  way  in  which  letters 
had  been  folded  before  the  days  of  envelopes, 
and  consequently  it  was  with  some  little  delay 
and  difficulty  that  a  trembling  hand  opened  the 
big  folds.  But  Margaret  was  suddenly  petri- 
fied, frozen  to  her  very  heart  with  terror,  when 
she  saw  another  letter  lying  enclosed  —  a  tiny 
letter  of  a  very  different  aspect  from  Bell's.  She 
dared  not  move — she  dared  not  do  anything  to 
show  the  greatness  of  the  shock  she  had  re- 
ceived. The  danger  was  not  of  a  kind  that  she 
dared  disclose.  The  paper  shook  in  her  hands 
convulsively,  and  then  they  became  pre ter natu- 
rally still  and  steady.  She  did  not  know  Rob 
Glen's  handwriting,  but  she  knew  that  this  was 
from  him  by  instinct,  by  inspiration  of  her  ter- 
ror. What  was  she  to  do  ?  Her  face  she  felt 
grow  crimson,  then  fell  into  a  chill  of  paleness; 
and  when  she  lifted  her  eyes  in  a  momenta- 
ry glance  of  panic  to  see  if  Jean  was  looking  at 
her,  she  met  the  eyes  of  Aubrey,  and  without 
knowing  what  she  did,  in  a  kind  of  delirium 
made  a  terrified,  instantaneous  appeal  to  him. 
Her  thoughts  were  too  hurried,  her  desperation 
too  complete  even  to  make  her  conscious  that 
the  appeal  was  unreasonable,  or,  indeed,  aware 
that  she  had  made  it,  till  the  thing  was  done ; 
and  next  moment  all  became  dim  before  her 
eyes,  though  she  still  kept  her  balance  desper- 
ately upon  her  seat,  and  held  the  papers  firmly 
in  her  hands. 

Aubrey  was  not  insensible  or  unkind  :  he  was 
startled  by  the  look ;  for  whatever  Margaret's 
emotion  might  mean  it  was  evidently  something 
very  real  and  terrible  for  the  young,  inexperi- 
enced creature  who  put  this  involuntary  trust  in 
him.     He  said  instantly : 

"  Have  you  finished  breakfast,  Aunt  Jean  ? — 
for  if  so,  I  want  you  to  look  at  some  things 
of  mine  —  a  parcel  I  received  this  morning. 
Christmas  is  coming,  and  with  all  that  crew  of 
children  at  the  Court,  a  man  is  put  to  his  wit's 
end  :  come  into  my  room  and  give  me  your  ad- 
vice about  them.     Oh  yes,  of  course  they  are 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


127 


rabbis}]  ;  what  can  I  buy  but  rubbish  on  my  lit- 
tle scrap  of  money  ?  But  come  and  give  me 
your  opinion." 

"Wait  a  minute,  my  dear  boy,  wait  a  min- 
ute; you  shall  have  my  opinion  with  the  great- 
est of  pleasure ;  but  I  want  to  hear  what  Bell 
says." 

Upon  this  he  got  up,  and  walking  solemnly  to 
her,  offered  his  arm.  "Who  is  Bell?  I  de- 
cline to  yield  the  pas  to  Bell.  Come  now  with 
me,  and  Bell  will  do  afterward  ;  if  it  takes  so 
long  to  read  as  it  promises  from  the  size  of  it,  I 
should  have  to  wait  till  to-morrow,  and  that 
does  not  suit  me  at  all.  Whisper!  there  is  a 
scrap  of  Sevres,  Rose  du  Barri,  and  one  or  two 
small  rags  of  lace." 

"  Oh!"  Mrs.  Bellingham  uttered  a  cry.  She 
made  a  little  dart  toward  Margaret  to  inspect 
the  letter  over  her  shoulder,  thus  hoping  to  se- 
cure both  the  advantages  offered ;  but  before 
she  could  carry  out  her  intention,  her  hand  was 
caught  fast  in  Aubrey's  arm.  "I  want  you  to 
see  them  all  first"  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

"1  do  think  dear  Aubrey  might  have  asked 
me  too,"  said  Miss  Grace,  querulously ;  "I  don't 
know  that  there  is  so  much  difference,  though  it 
is  Jean,  to  be  sure,  who  is  his  real  aunt.  But 
then,  perhaps,  dearest  Margaret,  you  know,  he 
might  not  like  to  ask  me,  an  unmarried  lady,  to 
go  into  his  room.  Yes,  yes,  dear  Aubrey,  I  see 
exactly  what  he  meant — he  gave  me  a  look  as 
he  went  away,  as  much  as  to  say,  I  will  explain 
it  all  afterward.  Naturally,  you  know,  he  would 
not  ask  me,  bdlng  an  unmarried  lady,  to  go  into 
his  room.  Where  are  you  going,  my  dear — 
where  are  you  going  ?  You  have  not  eaten  any- 
thing, darling  Margaret;  you  have  not  even 
taken  your  tea." 

But  it  was  not  difficult  to  escape  from  Grace; 
and  Margaret,  with  a  sense  of  desperation, 
snatched  a  cloak  from  the  hall  and  stole  out, 
wending  her  way  among  the  shrubbery  to  the 
most  retired  spot  she  could  think  of.  She  would 
not  go  to  her  room,  where  her  sister  would  in- 
evitably come  after  her.  She  had  thrust  Bell's 
big  letter — innocent  production,  penned  out  of 
the  fulness  of  Bell's  heart,  which  was  as  big  as 
the  letter — into  her  pocket.  And  she  dared  not 
look  at  the  other  till  she  had  got  safe  into  some 
corner  where  nobody  would  see  her,  some  covert 
where  she  would  be  free  from  inspection.  The 
cold  wind  revived  her,  and  a  little  spiteful  rain 
came  damp  upon  her  face,  bringing  back  a  little 
of  its  color ;  but  she  was  unconscious  of  both 
wind  and  rain.  She  went  to  a  little  breezy  sum- 
mer-house in  a  corner  of  the  grounds  ;  and  then 
she  bethought  herself  that  the  gravel-paths  were 
dry  there,  and  Jean  might  easily  follow ;  so  she 
retraced  her  steps  hurriedly,  and  pulled  the  hood 
of  her  cloak  over  her  head,  and  ran  across  the 
little  bridge  over  the  stream,  to  the  park,  where 
all  the  ground  was  still  thickly  sprinkled  with  the 
autumn  carpet  of  yellow  leaves.  The  grass  was 
wet,  the  rain  came  spitefully  in  her  face,  but  she 
did  not  mind.  When  she  was  in  the  midst  of 
the  big  clump  of  elms,  where  the  leaves  were  al- 
most gone,  she  stopped  and  paused  a  moment  to 
rest,  with  her  back  against  a  tree.  Jean  would 
never  follow  her  there  ;  the  wet  grass  and  univer- 
sal dampness  spreading  round  her  made  her  safe. 
She  opened  her  fingers  in  which  she  had  held 
it  fast,  the  innocent-looking  little  missive.  With 
9 


what  a  beating  heart  she  opened  it !  Oh,  how 
foolish,  foolish  she  had  been  to  bind  all  her  life. 
for  ever  and  ever,  and  she  not  eighteen  !  And 
here  it  was  that  she  raid  her  first  love-letter — 
her  heart  beating,  but  not  with  pleasure  ;  her 
bosom  heaving  with  terror,  and  dismay,  and 
pain. 

"Margaret,  my  own  darling,  where  have  yon 
gone  from  me  ?  Why  do  you  not  send  me  a  word 
in  charity?  It  is  three  months  since  you  went 
away!  Is  it  possible  that  in  all  that  time  you 
have  never  thought  of  me,  nor  thought  how  mis- 
erable I  was,  deprived  of  you  and  of  all  knowl- 
edge of  you  ?  You  have  put  my  love  to  a  tre- 
mendous test,  though  it  is  strong  enough  to  bear 
that,  and  a  great  deal  more.  But  oh,  my  love, 
don't  make  me  so  unhappy !  Shake  me  off,  you 
cannot ;  make  me  forget,  you  cannot.  My  love 
is  too  tender  and  too  constant  to  fail ;  but  you 
can  make  me  very  wretched,  Margaret,  and  that 
is  what  you  are  doing.  I  have  waited  and  wait- 
ed, and  looked  every  day  for  a  letter — the  mer- 
est little  scrap  would  have  made  me  happy.  I 
knew  you  could  not  write  often  or  much ;  but 
one  word,  surely  I  might  have  had  one  word. 
I  am  just  finishing  the  drawing  you  liked,  the 
view  of  Earl's  -  hall,  hoping  that,  notwithstand- 
ing all  changes,  you  may  like  it  still,  and  that  it 
may  remind  you  of  the  happy  time  when  we  first 
knew  each  other,  when  nobody  thought  of  part- 
ing us.  Your  dear  old  father  would  never  have 
parted  us ;  he  would  have  preferred  your  happi- 
ness to  everything.  He  would  rather  have  chos- 
en a  loving  husband  to  take  care  of  his  little 
Peggy,  than  all  the  world  could  give  her.  Your 
brother  thinks  otherwise,  my  darling,  and  I  don't 
blame  him ;  but  I  know  what  old  Sir  Ludovic 
would  have  thought.  And  you  will  not  let  them 
turn  you  against  me,  my  sweetest  Margaret? 
you  will  not  give  me  up  because  I  am  poor? 
That  is  a  thing  I  would  scarcely  believe,  if  you 
said  it  with  your  own  dear  lips.  Margaret  Les- 
lie give  up  her  betrothed  husband  because  he  had 
nothing!  I  never  would  believe  it.  But  I  know 
your  delicate  sense  of  honor,  my  own  dear  girl. 
You  do  not  like  to  write  to  me  in  secret  for  the 
sake  of  the  people  you  are  living  among.  I  un- 
derstand how  you  feel,  and  you  are  right  —  I 
know  you  are  right;  but,  my  sweet  love,  remem- 
ber that  to  please  them  you  are  killing  me,  and 
I  don't  feel  that  I  can  bear  it  much  longer.  The 
silence  is  becoming  too  much ;  it  is  making  an 
end  of  me.  One  word — one  sweet  loving  word, 
my  own  Margaret,  just  to  keep  me  alive !  I  feel 
that  I  am  getting  desperate.  If  I  do  not  have 
one  word  from  you  I  cannot  answer  for  myself, 
even  if  it  be  for  my  own  destruction  :  if  I  do  not 
hear  of  you,  I  must  come  and  see  you.  I  mu,st 
get  sight  of  you.  Three  months  without  a  word 
— without  a  message,  is  enough  to  kill  any  one 
who  loves  as  I  do.  1  say  to  myself,  she  cannot 
have  forgotten  me,  she  cannot  have  forsaken  me. 
she  is  too  true,  too  faithful  to  her  word;  and 
then  another  day  comes,  and  I  get  desperate. 
Half  a  dozen  times  I  have  been  ready  to  start 
off  to  go  after  you,  to  watch  about  your  house, 
only  to  get  a  glimpse  of  you.  Write  to  me,  my 
Margaret,  put  me  out  of  my  misery — only  one 
word — ! " 

Then,  in  a  postscript,  it  was  added  that  he  had 
asked  Bell  to  send  this  for  once,  in  order  that 
her  friends,  her  unkind  friends,  who  wanted  to 


128 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


separate  her  from  him,  might  not  find  out  he  had 
written,  and  that  he  had  sent  the  drawing — and 
that  once  more  he  begged  for  one  word,  only  one 
word  in  reply.  It  was  written  under  two  dates, 
one  some  weeks  before  the  other.  Margaret 
stood  with  her  back  against  the  elm-tree,  and 
read  it  with  a  flutter  of  terror.  Oh,  what  would 
she  do  if  he  were  to  carry  out  his  threat,  if  he 
were  to  come  and  watch  about  the  house,  and 
look  for  her !  Was  that  a  thing  that  might  hap- 
pen any  time,  when  she  was  walking  through  the 
lanes,  even  here  in  her  own  little  park  under  her 
elm-trees?  Might  he  come  at  any  moment  and 
do  as  he  used  to  do  at  Earl's-hall?  Oh!  Mar- 
garet started  from  her  shelter  and  clinched  her 
hands,  and  stamped  her  foot  on  the  wet,  yield- 
ing grass !  Oh !  should  it  ever  have  to  be  gone 
through  again,  all  that  it  made  her  blush  so  hot- 
ly to  think  of?  The  blush  that  was  usually  so 
evanescent  got  fixed  in  hot  crimson  of  excite- 
ment on  her  cheek.  If  he  came,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  it  was  she  who  must  fly — anywhere — to 
the  end  of  the  world :  but  yet  he  had  a  right  to 
come,  and  some  time  he  would  come,  and  she 
would  not  be  able  to  say  a  word  against  it. 
"Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  what  shall  I  do?"  cried 
Margaret  to  herself.  Would  he  not  let  her  even 
have  her  three  years  to  herself?  He  might  wait, 
surely  he  might  wait  for  three  years  ! 

But  it  would'be  impossible  to  give  any  idea 
of  the  confused  muddle  of  pain  and  helpless,  in- 
stinctive resistance  in  her  thoughts.  A  hot  flush 
of  resentment  against  him  for  daring  to  use  the 
name  her  father  had  ever  called  her  by — a  kind 
of  speechless  fury  and  indignation,  burst  out  in 
the  midst  of  all  her  other  excitements.  How 
dared  he  do  it,  Rob  Glen,  who  was  nobody,  who 
was  not  even  a  gentleman  ?  And  then  she  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands,  and  cried  out  with 
horror  and  bewilderment  to  think  that  this  was 
her  opinion  of  one  to  whom  she  had  pledged 
herself,  to  whom  she  would  belong  almost  more 
than  to  her  father  himself.  And  she  had  no  one 
to  go  to,  no  one  she  could  confide  in,  no  one 
whose  help  she  could  ask.  And  what  help  would 
avail  her?  She  must  keep  her  word,  she  must 
fulfil  her  promise — at  the  end  of  three  years. 

She  never  even  contemplated  the  possibility 
of  breaking  her  word  ;  but  at  present  why  could 
he  not  let  her  alone  ?  Had  she  not  begged  him 
to  let  her  alone?  She  sank  down  by  the  foot  of 
the  elm,  not  even  noting  the  wet,  and  cried.  Cry- 
ing could  do  no  good,  she  knew  that ;  but  yet 
it  relieved  her  mind.  She  was  hemmed  in  and 
encompassed  with  danger.  Perhaps  he  might 
come,  might  appear  suddenly  in  her  path,  with 
arms  ready  to  take  hold  of  her,  with  those  ca- 
resses which  made  her  shrink,  even  in  imagina- 
tion, with  shame  and  pain.  There  had  never 
been  a  time — except  the  first  moment  when  she 
was  too  broken-hearted,  too  miserable  to  care 
what  happened  to  her — that  she  had  not  shrunk 
from  his  tenderness.  And  how  could  she  bear 
it  now?  Terror  came  upon  her  breathless  and 
speechless  ;  here  even,  under  these  very  trees,  he 
might  appear  suddenly.  A  stifled  shriek  came 
out  of  her  oppressed  heart  at  the  thought.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  could  never  move  any- 
where with  safety,  without  a  sense  of  terror  again. 

And  then  there  were  lesser  but  very  apparent 
dangers.  Jean  would  ask  her  what  Bell  had 
said ;  she  would  ask,  perhaps,  to  see  Bell's  let- 


ter, in  which  there  was  a  sentence  which  was  as 
bad  as  telling  all.  Bell  wrote r  "I  am  sending 
to  you,  my  dear  Miss  Margret,  a  note  that  Rob 
Glen  —  him  that  you  had  to  come  so  much  to 
Earl's-hall  before  my  dear  old  maister  died — has 
asked  me  to  send.  Lothe,  lothe  was  I  to  do  it ! 
It  may  be  something  misbecoming  the  like  of 
you  to  receive.  But  I  will  send  it  this  one  time. 
For  a  young  lady  like  you  to  be  writing  of  let- 
ters with  a  young  gentleman  of  her  own  kind  is 
a  thing  I  would  not  encourage ;  but  Rob  Glen 
is  more  a  match  for  your  maid,  Miss  Margret, 
than  he  is  for  you.  And»  it's  real  impudent  of 
him  to  ask  me;  but  as  he  says  it's  something 
about  one  of  his  pictures,  I  do  it  for  this  one 
time."  If  Jean  asked  to  see  Bell's  letter,  would 
not  this  betray  her?  So  that  her  path  was  sur- 
rounded by  perils  both  great  and  small.  After 
a  while,  weary,  wet,  and  draggled,  with  her  dress 
clinging  to  her,  and  her  cloak  dripping,  she  re- 
turned across  the  sodden  grass.  Jean,  she  knew, 
would  be  busy  for  the  moment  with  household 
cares,  and  it  seemed  to  Margaret  that,  if  she  lost 
no  time,  she  might  still  make  an  attempt  to  avert 
the  fate  that  threatened.  She  went  to  her  own 
room,  holding  up  as  best  she  could  her  poor 
black  dress  with  its  spoiled  crape,  and,  still  crim- 
son and  hot  with  her  excitement,  wrote  two  let- 
ters in  the  time  which  she  ordinarily  took  to  ar- 
range the  preliminaries  of  one.  She  wrote  to 
Rob  as  follows,  with  a  terseness  of  expression 
partly  dictated  by  the  terror  of  him  that  had 
taken  possession  of  her  mind,  partly  by  the  head- 
strong haste  in  which  she  wrote.  ' 

"Dear  Rob, — I  could  not  write,  and  I  can- 
not now,  because  I  promised  to  Ludovie.  You 
must  not  come;  oh.  don't  come,  if  you  have  any 
pity  for  me!  My  life  would  be  made  miserable. 
How  is  it  possible  I  could  forget  you  ?  You 
don't  forget  anything  in  such  a  short  time — and 
how  could  I  ever  forget?  Oh,  it  has  cost  me 
too  much !  Please,  please  do  not  come.  I  am 
quite  well,  and  you  must  not — indeed  you  must 
not — mind  my  not  writing,  for  I  promised  Lu- 
dovie. Good-bye,  dear  Rob ;  I  do  not  want  to 
hurt  you.  I  always  knew  that  you  were  very 
kind;  but  you  must  not — indeed,  indeed,  you 
must  not — think  of  coming  to  me  here." 

Her  wet  dress,  her  spoiled  crape,  clung  about 
her  limbs ;  her  wet  shoes  were  like  two  pools,  in 
which  her  cold  little  feet  were  soaked.  As  is 
usual  at  such  moments  of  excitement,  her  head 
was  burning  but  her  feet  cold.  Nevertheless, 
she  wrote  another  little  note  to  Bell,  telling  her 
that  she  was  quite  right  not  to  send  any  letters, 
and  begging  that  if  she  saw  Mr.  Randal  Burn- 
side  she  would  ask  him  to  speak  to  Mr.  Glen. 
Bell  was  to  say  that  Margaret  had  told  her  to 
make  this  extraordinary  request — and  Mr.  Ran- 
dal Bumside  would  understand.  Nothing  could 
be  more  incoherent  than  this  last  letter,  for  Mar- 
garet did  not  half  know  what  she  meant  Randal 
to  do  or  say  ;  but  he  had  promised  to  help  her ; 
he  had  told  her  to  call  him  whenever  she  wanted 
him.  Was  her  poor  little  head  getting  feverish 
and  light?  She  went  out  again,  stealing,  in  her 
wet  garments,  once  more  down-stairs,  leaving  a 
dimness  upon  the  polished  wood,  and  walked  all 
the  way  through  the  gradually  increasing  rain 
to  the  post-office  in  the  village,  where  she  put  in 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


129 


her  two  letters.  She  was  aching  all  over,  her 
head  hot  and  light,  her  feet  cold  and  heavy,  her 
crape  all  soaked  and  ruined,  her  hands  too  feeble 
to  hold  np  her  dress,  which  clung  about  her  an- 
kles, and  made  her  stumble  at  every  step,  before 
she  got  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

The  time  that  had  passed  so  peacefully  over 
Margaret,  bringing  so  many  new  experiences, 
new  scenes,  and  enlarged  acquaintance  with  her 
own  circumstances  and  advantages,  had  not  gone 
with  equal  satisfaction  over  Hob  Glen.  Marga- 
ret's pledge  to  him — that  pledge  which  she  had 
given  so  easily,  and  which  his  mother  prized  so 
deeply — had  been  nothing  but  painful  and  shame- 
ful to  him.  Conscience  has  curious  varieties  in 
different  persons,  even  in  persons  so  nearly  re- 
lated as  mother  and  son.  Rob  felt  no  sting  in 
his  moral  consciousness  from  the  fact  that  he 
had  led  Margaret  to  commit  herself  in  her  mo- 
ment of  trouble,  and  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
very  abandonment  of  her  grief  to  assume  the 
position  of  a  lover,  the  mere  fact  of  which  gave 
him  a  hold  over  her  which  nothing  else  could 
have  given.  To  do  him  justice,  he  would  have 
taken  the  same  position  with  any  comely  poor 
girl  whom  he  had  encountered  in  equal  distress ; 
but  the  poor  lass  would  probably  have  thought 
little  of  it,  whereas  to  Margaret's  more  delicate 
nature  there  was  all  the  reality  of  an  unbreak- 
able bond  in  the  embrace  and  kiss  with  which 
he  had  taken  possession  of  her,  before  she  wns 
aware.  But  Rob  felt  no  trouble  in  his  conscience 
in  this  respect.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he 
had  surprised  her,  and  taken  advantage  of  her 
sorrow  and  loneliness  and  bewilderment ;  but 
in  respect  to  the  pledge  which  his  mother  had 
with  so  little  trouble  got  from  her,  his  conscience 
did  speak.  Margaret,  it  was  true,  had  thought 
nothing  of  it ;  she  had  felt  that  all  was  done  al- 
ready, that  her  fate  was  fixed  and  irrevocable, 
that  she  could  not  go  back — and  what  did  her 
name  on  a  piece  of  paper  signify?  But  here 
was  where  Rob's  honor,  such  as  it  was,  came  in  ; 
he  hated  that  piece  of  paper.  He  was  deeply- 
mortified  by  Margaret's  readiness  to  consent  to 
everything  so  long  as  she  could  get  free  from 
his  mother  and  himself.  The  written  bond 
seemed  to  put  him  in  a  false  position,  to  lessen 
him  in  his  own  eyes.  He  would  have  nothing 
to  say  to  it. 

"Keep  it  yourself,  if  you  like  it,  now  that  you 
have  got  it  —  it  is  none  of  my  doing,"  he  had 
said,  throwing  it  from  him.  Mrs.  Glen  secured 
it  with  a  cry  of  dismay,  as  it  was  fluttering  to- 
ward the  fire. 

"  Ay,  I'll  keep  it,"  she  said  ;  "  and  ye'll  be  fain 
some  day  to  come  questing  to  me  for  your  bit 
o'  paper,  as  ye  call  it,  that  you  never  would  have 
had  if  your  mother  had  been  as  thoughtless  as 
yonrsel'." 

"Mother!"  he  said,  furious,  "do  you  think  I 
would  hold  a  girl  to  her  written  promise,  if  she 
did  not  want  to  keep  her  word  ?" 

"I  canna  say  what  you  would  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Glen  ;  "you're  just  a  great  gomerel,  that's  what 
you  are.  Ye  have  mair  confidence  in  her  being 
in  love  with  ye,  a  lang  leggit  ne'er-do-weel,  than 
in  onything  that's  reasonable :  but,  Robbie,  my 


man,  love  comes  and  love  goes.  You're  no  bad- 
looking,  and  you  have  the  gift  of  the  gab,  which 
goes  a  lang  way — and  Maybe  she'll  stick  to  ye, 
as  you  think,  against  a'  her  friends  can  say ;  but 
for  me,  I've  aye  a  great  confidence  in  what's  put 
down  in  black  and  white,  and  I  wouldna  say  but 
you  would  be  fain  to  come  to  me  for  my  bit  o' 
paper,  for  a'  so  muckle  as  you  despise  it  now." 

"Never  will  I  build  my  faith  on  such  a  foun- 
dation— never  will  I  hold  Margaret  to  her  bond !"' 
cried  Rob ;  but  his  mother  locked  the  precious 
bit  of  paper  in  the  old  secretary  which  stood  in 
the  parlor,  with  a  cynical  disregard  to  his  prot- 
estations. 

"It's  there  in  the  left-hand  drawer,  if  any- 
thing should  happen  to  me ;  if  you  should  ever 
want  it,  you'll  ken  where  to  find  it,"  she  said. 

And  several  weeks  went  on  without  any  im- 
patience on  the  part  of  either  in  respect  to  Mar- 
garet ;  even  the  conversation  which  Rob  had 
with  the  new  Sir  Lndovic,  who  summoned  him 
curtly  to  give  up  all  idea  of  his  sister,  had  rather 
encouraged  than  depressed  him  ;  for  it  was  evi- 
dent that  Margaret  had  showed  no  signs  of  yield- 
ing, and  her  brother  was  not  even  her  guardian, 
and  had  no  power  whatever  over  her.  When 
he  thus  ascertained  from  Sir  Ludovic's  inadvert- 
ent admission  that  Margaret  had  remained  stead- 
fast, Rob  had  metaphorically  snapped  his  fingers 
at  the  Baronet.  He  had  been  perfectly  civil, 
but  he  had  given  Sir  Ludovic  to  understand  that 
he  cared  little  enough  for  his  disapprobation. 
"If  I  was  in  your  position  I  should  no  doubt 
feel  the  same,"  he  had  said  with  fierce  candor; 
"I  should  think  that  Margaret  was  about  to 
throw  herself  away ;  but  she  does  not  think  so, 
which  is  the  great  matter." 

"She  will  think  so  when  she  comes  to  her 
senses — when  she  i6  fit  to  form  an  opinion,"  Sir 
Ludovic  cried ;  and  Rob  had  smilingly  assured 
him  that  he  was  contented  to  wait  and  put  this 
to  the  proof.  But  after  that  interview,  when 
Earl's-hall  was  dismantled  and  left  vacant,  and 
everything  belonging  to  the  Leslies  seemed  about 
to  disappear,  and  not  a  word  came  out  of  the 
distance  in  which  Margaret  was,  both  Rob  and 
his  mother  began  to  be  uneasy.  Rob  had  not 
calculated  upon  an}'  correspondence ;  but  yet  he 
had  felt  that  somehow  or  other  she  would  man- 
age to  communicate  with  him,  and  to  find  some 
means  by  which  he  could  communicate  with 
her.  Girls  of  Margaret's  condition  do  not  sub- 
mit to  entire  separation  as  those  of  Jeanie's  do; 
and  when  day  after  day  passed,  and  week  after 
week,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  become  un- 
easy. Nor  was  the  anxiety  which  he  felt  as  a 
lover  unshared  by  the  cooler  spectator.  Mrs. 
Glen  began  to  ply  him  with  questions,  anxious, 
fretful,  scornful,  derisive. 

"Ony  word  to-day,  Rob?"  she  would  say; 
"I  saw  you  gang  out  to  meet  the  lassie  with  the 
post."  "Dear,  dear,  Rob,  I  hope  our  bonnie 
young  lady  may  be  well!"  would  be  the  burden 
of  the  next  inquiry — and  then  came  sharper  ut- 
terances: "Lord!  if  I  was  a  lad  like  you,  I 
wouldna  stick  there  waiting  and  waiting,  but  I 
would  ken  the  reason."  "Do  you  think  that's 
the  way  to  court  a  lass,  even  if  she  be  a  lady? 
I  would  give  her  no  peace  if  it  were  me ;  I  would 
let  her  see  that  I  wasna  the  one  to  play  fast  and 
loose  with."  These  repealed  assaults  were  fol- 
lowed by  practical  consequences  quite  as   dis- 


130 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


agreeable.  Instead  of  the  indulgence  with  which 
he  had  been  for  some  time  treated,  the  tacit  con- 
sent given  to  his  do-nothingness,  the  patience  of 
his  mother,  though  it  went  sorely  against  the 
grain,  with  an  existence  which  produced  no  prof- 
it and  was  of  no  use — he  began  to  be  once  more 
the  object  of  those  bitter  criticisms  and  flying 
insults  which  she  knew  so  well  how  to  make  use 
of,  to  the  exasperation  of  the  compelled  listener. 
"  What  it  is  to  be  a  man  and  a  good  scholar!" 
she  would  say.  "I  couldna  sit  hand-idle,  look- 
ing at  other  folk  working — no !  if  it  were  to  save 
my  life.  Eh,  ay,  there's  a  wonderful  difference 
atween  them  that  are  born  to  earn  their  living, 
and  them  that  are  content  to  live  on  their  friends. 
I  hope  the  time  will  never  come  when  that  will 
be  my  lot.  But  no  one  of  a'  my  friends  would 
help  me,  that's  one  thing,  certain,  though  there 
are  some  that  have  aye  the  luck  to  get  somebody 
to  toil  and  moil,  while  they  live  pleasantly  and 
gang  lightly.     It  is  the  way  of  the  world." 

Another  time  she  would  burst  out  with  all  the 
fervor  of  roused  temper.  "Lord,  man,  how  can 
ye  sit  there  and  see  every  creature  in  the  house 
working  but  yoursel'  ?  I  would  sooner  weed 
the  turnips  or  fiichten  the  craws — but  you're  of 
less  use  than  a  bairn  of  three  years  auld." 

Rob  steeled  himself  as  best  he  could  against 
these  blighting  words.  He  would  stroll  forth 
whistling  by  way  of  defiance  and  be  absent  the 
whole  day,  absent  at  meal-times  when  his  moth- 
er exacted  punctuality,  and  late  of  returning  at 
night.  It  was  a  struggle  of  constant  exaspera- 
tion between  them.  He  had  no  money  and  no 
means  of  getting  any,  or  he  would  gladly  have 
left  the  farm,  where  there  was  no  longer  even 
anything  to  amuse  him,  anything  to  give  him 
the  semblance  of  a  pursuit.  To  be  sure,  he 
worked  languidly  at  his  drawings  still,  and  re- 
sumed the  interrupted  sketch  of  Earl's -hall 
which  had  occupied  so  important  a  place  in  his 
recent  history. 

To  have  before  you  the  hope  of  being  rich  in 
three  years,  of  being  able  to  enter  another  sphere 
and  cast  away  from  you  all  those  vulgar  neces- 
sities of  work  which  fill  the  lives  of  most  people 
— to  have  ease  before  you,  happiness,  social  ele- 
vation, but  only  on  the  other  side  of  that  long 
chasm  of  time,  which  for  the  moment  you  can 
see  no  way  of  getting  through — it  is  impossible 
to  imagine  a  more  tantalizing  position.  Say 
that  it  is  utterly  mean  and  miserable  of  any  man 
to  fix  his  entire  hopes  upon  an  elevation  pro- 
cured in  such  a  way ;  but  Rob  was  not  conscious 
of  this.  A  rich  wife,  who  was  also  pretty  and 
young,  seemed  to  him  a  most  satisfactory  way 
of  making  a  fortune.  Had  she  been  old  and 
ugly  the  case  would  have  been  different ;  but  he 
had  no  more  hesitation  about  enriching  himself 
by  means  of  Margaret,  than  li£  had  felt  in  se- 
curing Margaret  to  himself  in  the  incaution  and 
prostration  of  her  grief.  His  conscience  and  his 
honor  had  in  these  particulars  nothing  to  say. 
But  as  day  after  day  went  on  and  he  received 
nothing  from  Margaret  to  prove  his  power  over 
her,  no  stolen  letter,  no  secret  assurance  of  her 
love  and  faithfulness,  Rob's  mind  became  more 
and  more  uneasy,  and  his  thoughts  more  and 
more  anxious.  She  was  the  sheet-anchor  of  his 
safety,  without  which  he  must  return  into  a  chaos 
all  the  more  dark  that  it  had  been  irradiated  by- 
such  a  hope. 


And  this  suspense,  while  it  made  his  position 
at  home  more  and  more  uncomfortable  every 
day,  did  not  improve  his  mental  condition,  as  may 
be  easily  supposed.  He  had  entertained  plans, 
before  he  had  perceived  how  easily  he  might 
step  upward  by  aid  of  Margaret's  hand,  of  seek- 
ing his  fortune  in  London,  and  either  by  means 
of  pen  or  pencil,  or  both  together,  making  out 
some  kind  of  future  for  himself.  But  why  should 
he  take  this  trouble,  and  expose  himself  to  the 
rich  man's  contumely,  etc.,  when,  by-and-by,  he 
might  himself  appear  among  the  best  (as  his  ig- 
norant fancy  suggested),  a  patron  of  art  instead 
of  a  feeble  professor  of  it — a  fine  amateur,  with 
all  the  condescension  toward  artists  which  it  is 
in  the  power  of  the  wealthy  to  show  ?  This  was 
an  ignoble  thought,  and  he  was  partially  con- 
scious that  it  was  so ;  but  there  was  a  latent 
love  of  indolence  in  him  which  is  always  fostered 
by  such  prospects  of  undeserved  and  unearned 
aggrandizement  as  now  flaunted  before  his  eyes. 
Why  should  he  work  laboriously  to  gain  a  little 
advancement  for  himself,  when  by  mere  patience 
and  waiting  he  might  reach  to  such  advancement 
as  the  most  Herculean  work  of  his  could  not 
bring  him  to?  And  the  suspense  in  which  he 
was  worked  upon  his  mind  and  led  him  on  in 
this  evil  path.  He  could  do  nothing  till  he  had 
heard  from  her ;  and  she  would  write,  she  must 
write,  any  day. 

These  motives  altogether,  and  the  want  of 
money  to  do  anything  for  himself,  and  even  the 
reproaches  of  his  mother,  who  denounced  him 
for  eating  the  bread  of  idleness  without  affording 
him  any  means  to  attempt  a  better  existence — 
which  latter  acted  by  hardening  his  heart  and 
making  him  feel  a  defiant  satisfaction  in  thwart- 
ing her — all  drove  him  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  slipshod  habits  of  an  unoccupied  life.  He 
got  up  late,  happy  to  escape  a  tete-a-tete  break- 
fast with  his  mother,  and  her  sneers  and  re- 
proaches, at  the  cost  of  Jenny's  integrity,  who 
smuggled  him  in  a  much  better  breakfast  than 
his  mother's  while  the  mistress  was  busy  about 
her  dairy  or  in  her  poultry-yard  ;  he  dawdled 
over  his  sketches,  doing  a  little  dilettante  Avork 
as  pleased  him ;  then  he  would  stroll  out  and 
perhaps  walk  across  the  country  to  some  other 
farm-house,  where  he  was  sure  of  a  hospitable 
invitation  to  share  the  family  dinner,  and  an  ex- 
cellent reception  from  the  mother  and  daughters, 
to  whom  it  was  no  trouble  to  make  himself 
agreeable  ;  or  he  would  go  to  the  Manse,  and  re- 
sume the  often  interrupted  discussion  about  his 
"difficulties  "  with  Dr.  Burnside,  who  was  anx- 
ious to  be  "of  use"  to  Rob,  and  to  be  instru- 
mental, as  he  said,  in  bringing  him  back  to  the 
right  way. 

These  discussions  amused  both  parties  greatly 
— the  Minister,  as  affording  him  a  means  of 
bringing  forth  from  their  ancient  armory  those 
polemical  weapons  in  which  every  man  who  has 
ever  attempted  to  wield  them,  takes  a  secret 
pride — and  the  young  sceptic,  by  reason  of  the 
delightful  sense  of  superiority  with  which  he  felt 
able  to  see  through  his  adversary's  weakness, 
and  sense  of  power  in  being  able  to  crush  him 
when  he  wished  to  do  so.  Often  these  con- 
troversies, too,  which  were  continually  renewed 
and  never-ending,  got  Rob  a  dinner,  and  saved 
him  from  the  domestic  horrors  of  the  farm.  And 
by-and-by  there  happened  another  accident  which 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


131 


threw  I.im  s'ill  more  into  the  way  of  mischief, 
as  happens  so  often  to  those  who  dally  with 
temptation.  He  had  made  his  peace  with  Jcanie 
on  that  melancholy  night  after  Margaret's  de- 
parture. She  had  been  angry  ;  but  she  had  been 
persuaded  to  hear  his  story  —  to  understand 
him,  to  see  how  it  was  that  he  had  been  "  drawn 
into  "  the  present  circumstances  of  his  life — -and 
finally  to  be  sorry  for  him  who  had  gone  astray 
because  unaware  that  she  was  near,  and  because 
of  poor  little' Margaret's  need  of  comfort  and 
solace. 

Did  not  Jeanie  know  how  he  could  console  a 
poor  girl  in  trouble  with  that  tongue  of  his,  that 
would  wile  a  bird  from  a  tree?  She  had  for- 
given him,  and  they  had  parted  in  melancholy 
kindness,  recognizing  that  fate,  not  any  fault  of 
theirs,  had  separated  them.  When  the  house- 
hold at  Earl's-hall  was  broken  up,  Jeanie  had 
returned  to  her  father ;  and  not  long  after  she 
had,  as  was  most  natural,  encountered  Rob  in  a 
lonely  lane,  where  she  was  taking  a  melancholy 
evening  walk.  What  could  be  more  natural ? 
She  could  not  sit  and  talk  with  the  wives  at  their 
doors,  when  the  soft  autumn  twilight,  so  full  of 
wistful  suggestion,  dropped  softly  over  the  "laigh 
toun."  Jeanie  was  too  much  in  the  midst  of 
her  own  life,  too  much  absorbed  by  the  dramatic 
uncertainties  of  fate,  to  be  capable  of  that  tran- 
quil amusement.  There  were  not  many  people 
in  the  Kirkton  who  cared  for  the  exercise  of  a 
walk.  The  men  might  stray  out  a  hundred  yards 
beyond  the  village,  on  one  side  or  the  other, 
with  their  evening  pipe,  but  the  women  kept  at 
"  the  doors ;"  they  had  enough  of  exercise  in  the 
care  of  their  families  and  in  "  redding  up  the 
hoose." 

Thus  Jeanie,  even  if  she  had  wanted  a  com- 
panion, would  have  been  unlikely  to  rind  one ; 
and  indeed  it  was  much  more  to  her  mind  to 
stray  forth  alone,  very  melancholy,  with  her  head 
full  of  Rob,  and  all  her  old  anger  and  indigna- 
tion softened  into  indulgence  and  pity.  He  was 
made  like  that,  could  he  help  it  ?  He  could  not 
see  trouble  anywhere  without  doing  what  he 
could  to  console  the  sufferer.  Jeanie  knew  this 
well — and  how  tender  a  comforter  he  was.  And 
poor  Miss  Margaret  was  so  young  and  so  bonnie, 
and  in  such  sore  trouble ;  and  oh,  it  was  easy  to 
see,  Jeanie  thought  to  herself,  how  soft  her  heart 
was  to  him  !  No  wonder  ;  he  would  wile  a  bird 
from  the  tree.  They  met  while  she  was  in  this 
softened  mood ;  and  Rob  was  one  who  never  neg- 
lected the  good  the  gods  provided  of  this  sort. 
He  in  his  turn  had  recourse  to  Jeanie  for  conso- 
lation, throwing  himself  upon  that  feminine  mer- 
cy and  sympathy  which  never  had  yet  failed  him. 
And  Jeanie  cried,  and  was  dismally  flattered  by 
his  confidence  in  the  midst  of  her  suffering,  and 
told  him  all  she  had  heard  from  Bell  about  Mar- 
garet's movements,  and  forgot  herself,  poor  girl, 
in  the  intensity  of  fellow-feeling  and  understand- 
ing. 

Next  time  they  met  it  was  not  by  accident ; 
and  Rob,  while  growing  more  and  more  anxious 
about  the  new  love,  which  meant  more  than  hap- 
piness to  him,  which  meant  likewise  fortune  and 
an  altogether  elevated  and  loftier  life,  took  the 
comfort  of  the  old  love  which  was  thus  thrown 
in  his  way,  and  found  life  much  more  tolerable 
from  the  fact  that  he  could  talk  over  his  distress- 
es with  Jeanie.     He  could  confide  to  her  his 


mother's  taunts,  and  the  hardness  of  his  life  at 
home,  till  Jeanie  almost  felt  that  to  see  him  mar- 
ried to  Margaret  would  be  an  advantage  to  her- 
self, though  she  cried  over  it  bitterly  enough 
when  she  was  alone.  Hut  what  did  she  matter, 
after  all,  a  poor  lass?  Jeanie  thought  she  could 
put  up  with  anything  to  see  him  happy. 

"A  bonnie  end  your  drawing  and  your  paint- 
ing and  a'  your  idleness  is  coming  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Glen,  one  November  morning,  while  Rob  ob- 
scured all  the  light  in  the  little  parlor  window, 
putting  the  last  touches  to  that  drawing  of  Earl's- 
hall.  "A  bonnie  way  of  spending  your  life.  Eh, 
man  !  I  would  sooner  sweep  the  house,  or  clean 
the  rooms !  What  is  the  good  o'  a'  this  fvking 
and  splairging?  and  what  is  to  be  the  end  of 
your  bonnie  miss  that  a'  this  idle  work  was  to 
win  ?  I'll  warrant  she  thinks  she's  gotten  clear 
off,  and  got  a'  she  wanted,  and  no  need  to  do  a 
hand's  turn  for  you,  in  recompense  of  a'  that  you 
have  thrown  away  upon  her." 

"  You  have  a  very  poor  opinion  of  Margaret," 
he  said,  "if  you  think  so  little  of  her.  You  can 
scarcely  want  her  for  a  daughter-in-law." 

"  Me !"  said  Mrs.  Glen  ;  "  am  I  wanting  her  ? 
I  hope  I  have  mair  sense  than  to  put  my  trust 
in  daughters-in-law.  'A  gude  green  turfs  a  fine 
gude  mither,'  that's  a'  the  most  of  them  are 
thinking.  Na!  she  might  gang  to — Jerusalem 
for  me,  if  it  wasna  that  her  siller  is  the  only 
way  I  can  think  of  to  get  you  bread,  ye  weird- 
less  lad.  When  you  have  no  mother  to  keep  a 
roof  over  your  head,  what  is  to  become  of  you  ? 
The  Lord  be  thanked  there's  no  a  weirdless  one 
in  my  family  but  yoursel'.  Do  I  want  the  lass 
or  her  siller  —  no  me!  But  I'm  real  glad  I've 
got  yon  bond  over  her,  for  you  and  no  for  me." 

He  frowned  as  he  always  did  at  the  mention 
of  this.  "I  am  going  to  pack  up  this  drawing 
and  send  it  to  Miss  Leslie,"  he  said. 

"The  picter!  in  a  present!"  Mrs.  Glen  stood 
for  a  moment  taken  by  surprise,  and  a  little  be- 
wildered by  the  suddenness  of  the  suggestion. 
"I'm  no  that  sure  but  what  it's  a  good  notion," 
she  said,  slowly ;  "them  that  dinna  ken  might 
say  it  was  throwing  good  money  after  bad ;  but 
I'm  no  that  sure.  In  a  present?  What  might 
you  get  for  that  now  if  you  were  to  sell  it?  for 
there's  plenty  folk,  I  hear,  that  are  fuilish  enough 
to  give  good  solid  siller  for  a  wheen  scarts  upon 
paper."  She  had  the  most  exalted  idea  of  her 
son's  skill,  and  secretly  admired  his  work  with 
enthusiasm — with  all  the  naive  appreciation  of  a 
"picture"  which  is  natural  to  the  uninstructed 
but  not  dull  understanding — though  she  would 
not  have  betrayed  her  admiration  for  the  world. 

"What  might  I  get  for  it  ?"  said  Rob,  looking 
critically  yet  complacently,  with  his  head  a  little 
upon  one  side,  at  the  finished  drawing.  "Well 
— if  I  were  known,  if  I  had  got  a  connection 
among  the  picture-dealers,  perhaps — let  us  say 
twenty  pounds." 

"  Twenty  pound !"  (she  drew  a  long  breath  of 
awe  and  wonder)  ;  "and  you'll  go  and  give  that 
light-headed  lassie,  in  a  present,  a  thing  that 
might  bring  you  in  twenty  pound!" 

Rob  did  not  explain  that  the  bringing  in  of 
twenty  pounds  was  an  extremely  problematical 
event.  He  got  up  with  a  little  thrill  of  excite- 
ment and  easy  superficial  feeling.  "I  would 
give  her,"  he  said,  "just  to  hear  from  her — just 
to  have  her  back  again — just  to  have  her  hand 


132 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


in  mine — I  would  give  her  everything  I  have  in 
the  world !" 

"Ay,  ay,  my  bonnie  man,"  said  his  mother, 
impressed  for  the  moment  by  this  little  flourish 
of  trumpets.  But  she  added,  "And  it  would 
not  be  that  hard  to  do  it,  if  she'll  only  return  you 
back  your  compliment,  Rob,  and  do  as  muckle 
for  you ! " 

This  was  how  the  sending  of  the  picture  "in 
a  present "  was  decided  upon,  as  a  touching,  if 
dumb  appeal,  to  Margaret's  recollection — not  to 
say  as  "laying  her  under  an  obligation,"  which 
it  would  be  necessary  to  take  some  notice  of; 
for  both  mother  and  son  fully  appreciated  this 
side  of  the  question,  which  also  forced  itself  at 
once  upon  Mrs.  Bellingham's  practical  and  sensi- 
ble eyes.  Mrs.  Glen,  for  her  part,  entertained  a 
secret  hope  that  Margaret  would  have  sense 
enough  to  see  the  necessity  of  giving  not  only 
thanks  and  renewed  affection,  but  perhaps  some- 
thing else  "in  a  present,"  which  would  make  a 
not  inadequate  balance  to  Rob's  gift.  This  was 
how  things  were  managed  by  all  reasonable  peo- 
ple, that  neither  side  might  be  "under  an  obli- 
gation" of  too  serious  a  character.  But  she  was 
wise  enough  to  say  nothing  of  this  to  her  son, 
though  it  is  just  possible  that  the  thought  may 
have  glanced  across  his  mind  too.  And  about 
the  letter  which  he  sent  immediately  afterward, 
through  Bell,  and  which  produced  such  results 
for  Margaret,  Rob,  on  his  side,  said  nothing  at 
all. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Bell  had  left  Earl's- hall  when  the  house  was 
dismantled,  a  melancholy  operation,  which  was 
proceeded  with  soon  after  the  departure  of  the 
ladies.  Old  Sir  Ludovic's  library  was  sent  over 
to  Edinburgh,  where  the  greater  part  had  been 
sold  and  dispersed.  It  was,  in  its  way,  a  valu-« 
able  library,  containing  many  rare  editions  and 
old  works  of  price,  a  costly  taste,  which  the 
present  Sir  Ludovic  did  not  share.  Whatever 
was  done  with  the  old  house,  his  wife  and  he 
agreed  that  to  get  rid  of  the  books  would  be  al- 
ways an  advantage.  If  they  kept  it,  the  long 
room  must  be  either  divided  into  two,  or  at  least 
arranged,  for  the  comfort  of  the  family,  in  a 
manner  impossible  at  present  while  it  was  block- 
ed up  with  shelves  in  every  corner,  and  a  succes- 
sion of  heavy  bookcases. 

In  these  innocent  regions  it  was  not  necessary 
to  keep  servants  in  charge  of  an  empty  house 
out  of  alarm  for  the  safety  of  its  contents.  Is  it 
not  the  simple  custom,  even  of  householders  in 
Edinburgh,  secure  in  the  honesty  of  their  popu- 
lation, to  lock  their  doors  for  all  precaution,  and 
leave  emptiness  to  take  care  of  itself?  There 
was  not  much  fear  for  Earl's-hall.  If  Aubrey 
Bellingham  had  known,  indeed,  that  the  various 
"bits"  of  china  that  he  admired,  and  the  old 
dresses  in  the  "aumie"  in  the  high  room,  and 
the  bits  of  forlorn  old  tapestry  that  wantoned  in 
the  wind,  were  thus  left  without  any  protection, 
it  is  very  possible  that  he  might  have  organized 
a  gang  of  aesthetic  cracksmen  to  seize  upon  those 
treasures ;  but  they  were  not  in  danger  from  any 
one  in  Fife. 

Bell  and  John,  or  rather,  to  speak  correctly, 
John  and  Bell,  taking  with   them  their  brown 


cow  and  all  the  chickens,  removed  into  a  cot- 
tage which  they  had  acquired  some  years  be- 
fore, on  the  road  to  the  Kirkton,  with  one  or 
two  fields  attached  to  it,  and  a  neat  little  barn, 
byre,  and  poultry -yard.  This  had  been  for  a 
long  time  past  the  object  of  their  hopes,  their 
Land  of  Promise,  to  which  they  looked  forward 
as  their  recompense  for  years  of  long  labor;  and 
it  was  pleasant,  there  could  be  no  doubt,  to  es- 
tablish the  brown  cow  in  the  byre  and  see  her 
"like  my  leddy  in  her  drawin'-room,"Bell  said, 
making  herself  comfortable  in  her  new  habita- 
tion. But  it  is  a  very  different  thing  to  have 
only  "a  but  and  a  ben,"  when  you  have  been 
virtual  mistress  of  a  fine  old  house  like  Earl's- 
hall  :  and  although  Bell  had  always  prided  her- 
self upon  her  willingness  "to  turn  her  hand  to 
anything,"  it  did  not  quite  please  her  to  do  all 
the  little  sweepings  and  dustings,  and  fulfil  ev- 
ery duty  of  her  little  menage,  after  having  Jeanie 
under  her,  to  whom  she  could  refer  all  the  rough- 
er work  which  did  not  please  herself.  But  above 
all,  it  was  hard  upon  Bell  that  she  had  no  lon- 
ger "  the  family  "  to  occupy  her  thoughts,  to  call 
forth  her  criticisms,  and  rouse  her  temper  now 
and  then,  and  give  her  a  never-failing  subject  of 
interest  and  animadversion.  Bell  had  a  daughter 
of  her  own,  who  had  been  married  as  long  as  she 
could  remember,  it  appeared  to  the  old  woman, 
and  who  had  ifo  children  to  give  her  mother  a 
new  hold  upon  life  ;  and  when  she  had  finished 
her  work  and  sat  down  in  the  evening  "outside 
the  door,"  but  with  a  totally  different  prospect 
from  that  she  had  been  familiar  with  so  long,  Bell 
would  talk  to  any  neighbor  that  chanced  to  pass 
that  way,  and  paused  to  cheer  her  up  —  about 
"my  family"  and  even  about  "my  ladies," 
though  they  were  the  same  whom  she  had  talk- 
ed of  a  little  while  ago  with  nothing  but  the 
definite  article  to  distinguish  them,  and  of  whom 
she  had  never  been  fond,  though  they  had  risen 
so  much  in  her  estimation  now,  and  she  general- 
ly concluded  the  audience  by  a  sudden  relapse 
into  crying  on  the  subject  of  "my  Miss  Mar- 
garet" which  filled  the  Kirkton  half  with  pity  for 
"  the  poor  old  body  that  had  been  so  long  in  one 
place,  and  couldna  bide  to  be  parted  from  them," 
and  half  with  indignation  that  she  should  "think 
mair  o'  a  young  lady  that  wasna  a  drap's  blood 
to  her,  than  of  her  ain."  Mrs.  Dreghorn,  Bell's 
daughter,  who  kept  the  "grocery  shop"  in  the 
"  laigh  toun,"  was  strongly  of  this  opinion.  "My 
mother  thinks  nothing  o'  me  in  comparison  with 
her  Miss  Margret — aye  her  Miss  MargretT'said 
this  good  woman  -,  but  as  Mrs.  Dreghorn  was 
forty,  it  may  perhaps  be  allowed  to  be  a  differ- 
ent sentiment  which  Margaret  called  forth,  from 
that  steady-going  affection  on  equal,  or  nearly 
equal  terms,  which  subsisted  between  herself  and 
her  mother.  Bell  could  not  speak  of  her  child 
without  a  moistening  of  the  eyes.  "My  bonnie 
bairn  !"  she  was  never  tired  of  talking  of  her,  and 
of  the  letters  Margaret  wrote  to  her ;  Bell  was 
perhaps  the  only  one  of  Margaret's  correspond- 
ents of  whom  she  was  not  at  all  afraid. 

Bell,  however,  was  very  much  bewildered  by  the 
hasty,  incoherent  little  epistle  which  she  received 
in  reply  to  hers,  which  had  co'ntained  the  letter 
of  Rob  Glen.  "  If  you  see  Mr.  Randal  Burnside, 
will  you  ask  him  to  speak  to  Mr.  Glen  ?  Say  I 
told  you  to  ask  him,  dear  Bell ;  oh,  be  sure  I 
said  vou  were  to  ask  him  !   and  Mr.  Randal  will 


THE  PRIMROSE  RATH. 


188 


.understand."  What  did  this  mean  ?  Bell  grew 
frightened,  and  for  her  part  could  not  under- 
stand. The  first  step  in  the  matter  had  been 
strange  enough  :  that  Rob  Glen  should  have  ven- 
tured to  forward  a  letter  to  Miss  Margaret,  was 
of  itself  a  strange  and  inexplicable  fact.  But  it 
might  be,  as  he  said,  about  his  picture  ;  it  might 
be  about  some  price  which  old  Sir  Lndovic  bad 
offered.  In  such  circumstances  writing  might 
be  necessary,  and  he  might  not  like,  perhaps,  to 
write  to  "the  ladies  themselves."  But  Marga- 
ret's message  made  the  mystery  more  mysterious 
still.  It  confounded  Bell  so  much  that  she  said 
nothing  about  it  to  John,  but  wrote  witli  much 
trouble  and  pain  another  letter,  begging  her 
young  lady  "not  to  trouble  her  bonnie  head 
about  young  men  ;  but  to  leave  them  to  them- 
selves, as  being  another  kind  of  God's  creatures, 
innocent  enough  in  their  way,  but  not  the  best  of 
company  for  bonnie  young  ladies  like  her  darling." 

When,  however,  Bell  had  entered  this  protest, 
she  immediately  bent  her  mind  to  the  due  car- 
rying out  of  Margaret's  request.  Randal  had 
adopted  the  habit  of  coming  over  from  Edinburgh 
in  the  end  of  the  week  and  staying  till  Monday, 
a  praiseworthy  habit  which  his  mother  much  en- 
couraged, and  of  which  she  too  spoke  with  tears 
in  her  eyes  (so  weak  are  women !)  as  proving 
her  son  to  be  the  very  best  son  in  the  world,  and 
the  very  prop  and  staff  of  old  age  to  "  the  doc- 
tor and  me."  It  was  true  enough  that  he  was 
the  delight  and  support  of  the  old  couple  in  the 
Manse,  of  whom  one  was  as  yet  not  particularly 
old.  And  if  Randal  was  fond  of  golf,  and  ar- 
ranged "a  foursome  "for  all  the  Saturdays  of 
his  visits,  upon  the  Links  which  were  within 
reach,  in  what  respect  did  that  affect  the  matter  ? 
A  man  may  be  a  "keen  golfer,"  let  us  hope,  and 
a  very  good  son  as  well. 

"Is  there  ony  news  at  the  Kirkton  ?"  Bell 
said,  when  John  came  in,  throwing  off  an  old 
furred  coat  that  had  been  old  Sir  Ludovic's ;  for 
John's  bones  were  getting  cranky  with  rheuma- 
tism, and  his  blood  thin,  as  happens  to  every 
man.  The  fur  glistened  as  he  came  into  the 
warm  room  with  bis  breath,  which  the  cold  with- 
out had  fixed  like  beads  upon  every  little  hair. 
John  put  it  away  carefully  on  its  peg,  and  came 
"into"  the  fire,  and  put  himself  into  his  big 
wooden  arm-chair  before  he  replied — 

"Naething  of  consequence  ;  there's  a  change 
o'  the  ministry  looked  for  afore  lang,  but  that's 
been  maistly  aye  the  case  as  lang  as  I  can  mind. 
Either  they're  gaun  out,  or  they're  coming  in  ; 
they're  a'  much  alike  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"I  wouldna  say  that,"  said  Bell,  who  was 
more  of  a  partisan  than  her  husband.  "  There's 
our  ain  side — and  there's  the  tither  side,  and  our 
ain's  muckle  the  best.  It's  them  I  would  stand 
by  through  thick  and  thin — I'm  nane  o'  your  in- 
different masses,"  said  the  old  woman  ;  "but  it 
wasna  politics  I  was  thinking  of.  Did  you  see 
naebody  that  you  and  me  kens  ?" 

"Naebody  that  you  and  me  kens?  I  saw  a 
body  that  you  and  me  kens,"  said  John,  taking 
a  very  large  mouthful  of  the  vowel,  which  he 
pronounced  aw — "first  Katie  and  her  man,  just 
in  their  ordinar ;  and  syne  John  Robertson  at 
his  door,  complaining  that  he  never  could  find 
Jeanie ;  and  syne  John  Armstrong  at  the  smid- 
dy,  very  Strang,  shoeing  ane  of  Sir  Claude's  horses 
that's  to  hunt  the  morn  ;  and  syne — " 


"Touts,  I  dinna  want  a  dictionary,"  said 
Bell,  probably  meaning  directory ;  "  naebody 
mair  particular  than  John  here  and  John  there  ? 
as  if  I  was  wanting  a  list  o'  a'  the  Johns  !  Weel 
I  wat  there's  plenty  o'  ye,  young  and  auld,  and 
great  and  sma'." 

"Is't  the  wives  you're  so  keen  about?  I  can 
tell  ye  naething  o'  the  women  ;  there  were  few 
about  the  doors  at  this  time  o'  the  night,  and 
them  just  taupies,  that  would  have  been  mair  in 
their  place,  getting  ready  their  man's  supper,  or 
putting  their  bairns  to  their  beds." 

"  Eh,  man  John,  but  ye've  awfu'  little  inven- 
tion," said  Bell.  "If  it  had  been  me  that  bad 
been  to  the  Kirkton,  I  would  have  heard  some 
story  or  other  to  divert  you  with  that  were  bid- 
ing at  liame.  But  ye  canna  get  mair  out  of  a 
man  than  Providence  has  put  infill  him,"  she 
said,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation  ;  then  added,  as 
by  a  sudden  thought,  "You  wouldna  see  ony  of 
the  Manse  family  about?" 

"Ay  did  I,"  said  John,  provoked  to  hear  any 
doubt  thrown  upon  his  capacity  of  seeing  the 
Manse  family.  "I  saw  the  gig  trundling  up  the 
bit  little  avenue  with  Mr.  Randal  and  his  little 
portmanteau  that  I  could  have  carried  in  ae 
hand.  But  Robert's  just  a  useless  creature  that 
will  have  out  a  horse  for  naething,  sooner  than 
up  with  a  bit  small  affair  upon  his  shoulder  and 
carry  't.  It's  bad  for  the  horse  and  it's  worse  for 
the  man,  to  let  him  go  on  in  such  weirdless 
ways. " 

"  So  Randal  Burnside's  back  again  ?"  said  Bell. 
She  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  John's  further 
animadversions  upon  Robert,  who  was  the  man- 
of-all-work  at  the  Manse.  Having  at  last  got 
at  the  scrap  of  information  she  wanted,  she  got 
up  and  bestirred  herself  about  the  supper,  and 
listened  to  just  as  much  as  interested  her  and  no 
more.  In  this  way  at  his  own  fireside,  without 
even  Jeanie  to  disturb  him,  and  no  bell  to  break 
the  thread  of  his  discourse,  John  loved  to  talk. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday,  which  Bell  al- 
lowed to  pass  without  any  attempt  to  execute 
her  commission  ;  but  when  Sunday  came,  after 
the  service  was  over,  the  sermon  ended,  and  the 
kirk  "skailing,"  in  all  decency  and  good  order, 
she  seized  her  opportunity.  "Will  you  speak 
a  word,  Mr.  Randal  ?"  she  said,  lingering  behind 
the  rest.  "  Na,  no  afore  a' the  folk  ;  but  if  you'll 
come  round  to  me  at  poor  Sir  Ludovic's  tomb 
yonder,  where  I'm  gaun  to  see  if  ony  weeding's 
wanted." 

Randal  gave  a  hasty  assent.  His  heart  began 
to  beat,  in  sympathy,  perhaps,  with  Margaret's 
heart,  which  had  beat  so  wildly  when  she  gave 
the  commission  now  about  to  be  communicated 
to  him.  He  got  free  of  the  people,  doubly  tire- 
some at  this  moment,  who  insisted  on  shaking 
hands  with  the  Minister's  son  as  part  of  the  per- 
formance. "Eh,  what  a  sermon  the  Doctor's 
given  us!"  the  kind  women  said.  Perhaps  Ran- 
dal had  not  been  so  much  impressed  by  his  fa- 
ther's eloquence;  but  he  was  very  eager  to  make 
an  end  of  these  weekly  salutations  and  congratu- 
lations. He  hurried  back  to  Bell,  with  such  an 
increase  and  quickening  of  all  the  currents  of 
his  blood,  that  the  old  woman  looked  with  sur- 
prise upon  his  glorified  countenance.  "I  never 
thought  he  was  such  a  bonnie  lad,"  Bell  said  to 
herself.  As  for  Randal,  he  tried  very  hard,  but 
with  no  success,  to  persuade  himself  that  what 


131 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


she  wanted  with  him  must  be  some  trifling  busi- 
ness of  her  own.  But  his  heart  travelled  on  to 
Margaret,  and  to  some  chance  message  from  her, 
with  a  determination  which  he  could  not  resist. 

"Well,  Bell,  what  is  it?"  he  said. 

"  I  am  real  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Randal.  It's 
no  my  business,  and  it's  a  thing  I  canna  approve 
of,  that  maun  be  said  to  begin  with.  Mr.  Ran- 
dal, I  was  writing  to  my  young  lady,  to  Miss 
Margret — " 

"Yes?"  said  Randal,  a  little  breathless,  and 
impatient  of  the  suspense. 

"Ay,  just  that — and  ye'll  no  guess  what  hap- 
pened. Rob  Glen,  that's  him  that  is  Mrs.  Glen's 
son  at  Earl's-lee  farm,  a  lad  that  was  to  be  a 
minister — you'll  ken  him  by  name  at  least — Rob 
Glen  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know  him  ;"  Randal  felt  as  if  she  had 
thrown  a  deluge  of  cold  water  upon  him ;  his 
very  heart  was  chilled.  "Oh  yes,"  he  said,  cold- 
ly, "I  know  Rob  Glen." 

"  Well,  sir,  what  does  that  lad  do  but  come 
to  me  with  a  bit  letter  in  his  hand.  '  When 
ye're  writing  to  Miss  Margret,  will  ye  send  her 
that  for  me?'  he  said.  You  may  think  how  I 
glowered  at  him.  'For  Miss  Margret!'  I  said. 
He  gave  me  a  kind  of  fierce  look,  and  '  Just  for 
Miss  Margret,'  he  says.  You  might  have  laid 
me  on  the  floor  with  a  puff  o'  your  breath.  Miss 
Margret!  so  young  as  she  is,  far  ower  young  to 
get  letters  from  onv  man,  far  less  a  lad  like  Rob 
Glen." 

"But  why  are  you  telling  me  this?"  said  Ran- 
dal, half  angry,  half  miserable.  "I  hope  you 
will  not  tell  it  to  any  one  else." 

"I  will  tell  it  to  no  one  else,  Mr.  Randal ;  I'm 
no  one  to  talk.  I  have  to  tell  you  because  I'm 
bidden  to  tell  you.  When  I  looked  like  that  at 
the  lad,  he  said  it  was  about  a  picture  that  he 
had  drawn  of  auld  Earl's-ha'.  And  weel  I  mind- 
ed the  drawing  of  that  picture,  and  the  work  my 
bonnie  lady  made  about  it.  Well,  I  sent  the 
letter,  and  yesterday  morning,  nae  farther  gane, 
I  got  twa-three  lines  from  her,  a'  blotted  and 
blurred,  poor  lamb.  I'm  thinking  the  ladies 
maun  have  been  at  her — her  that  never  had  a 
hard  word  from  man  or  woman!  'Bell,'  she 
says,  '  if  you  see  Mr.  Randal  Burnside,  will  you 
tell  him  to  speak  to  Mr.  Glen  ?  Say  it  was  me 
that  bade  ye,  and  then  he'll  ken  fine  what  I 
mean.'  I  hope  ye  do  ken  what  she  means,  Mr. 
Randal,  far  it's  mair  than  I  do ;  and  I  canna  ap- 
prove for  a  young  lady,  and  such  a  young  thing 
as  Miss  Margret,  ony  such  troke  with  young 
men." 

Randal's  face  had  been  almost  as  changeable 
as  Margaret's  while  these  words  floated  on.  He 
reddened,  and  paled,  and  brightened,  and  was 
overshadowed,  one  change  following  another  like 
the  clouds  on  the  sky.  Finally,  the  last  result 
was  a  mixture  of  confusion  and  bewilderment, 
with  eager  interest,  which  it  is  difficult  to  de- 
scribe. "I  fear  I  don't  understand  at  all,  Bell," 
he  cried.  "  Was  that  all  ?  Was  there  no  more 
than  that?" 

"No  another  word  ;  but  a'  blurred  and  blot- 
ted, as  if  she  had  been  in  an  awfu'  hurry.  And 
ye  canna  understand  ?  She  said  you  would  ken 
fine." 

"I  think  I  understand  a  little," Randal  said, 
ruefully.  He  had  asked  her  to  call  upon  him 
whenever  there  was  anvthinir  in  which  she  want- 


ed help,  and  here  it  was  evident  she  wanted  help  ; 
but  of  what  kind  ?  Was  he  to  help  her  lover,  or 
to  discourage  him?  But  of  tl.is  Margaret  gave 
no  intimation.  The  office  in  itself  was  embar- 
rassing enough,  and  what  man  ever  received  a 
more  mysterious  commission  ?  She  had  appeal- 
ed to  him  for  aid,  and  who  so  willing  to  give  it  ? 
But  what  kind  of  aid  it  was  she  wanted  he  could 
not  tell.  "  I  know  in  a  way,"  he  said,  "  I  know 
she  wants  me  to  do  something,  but  what?  Nev- 
er mind,  I  will  do  my  best  to  find  out ;  and  when 
you  write  to  her,  Bell,  my  good  woman,  will  you 
tell  her — " 

"Na,  na,"  said  Bell,  briskly,  "no  a  word. 
I've  had  enough  to  do  with  that  kind  of  thing. 
I'll  carry  no  message,  nor  I'll  take  charge  o'  no 
letters ;  na,  na,  lads  are  a  destruction  to  every- 
thing. And  no  a  lad  even  that  might  be  evened 
to  the  like  of  her.  Na,  na,  Mr.  Randal,  it  might 
be  the  tnaist  innocent  message  in  the  world;  I'm 
no  blaming  you,  but  I  canna  undertake  no  more." 

"And  1  think  you  are  quite  right,"  he  said, 
confusedly;  "but — what  did  she  want  him  to 
do?"  He  went  away  in  great  perplexity  and 
excitement,  whicli  it  was  very  difficult  to  shut 
up  within  his  own  bosom.  To  speak  to  Glen — 
that  was  his  commission  ;  but  with  what  object  ? 
To  help  Margaret,  poor  little  Margaret  caught 
in  the  toils,  and  who  had  no  one  to  help  her ; 
but  what  did  she  want  him  to  do? 

Randal  went  out  after  afternoon  church  was 
over,  the  "second  diet  of  worship,  "as  his  father 
called  it.  It  was  not  a  promising  evening  for 
a  walk.  The  short  November  day  was  closing 
in  ;  the  foggy  atmosphere  was  heavy  and  chill — 
the  clouds  so  low  that  they  seemed  within  the 
reach  of  his  hand.  Hedge-rows  and  trees  were 
all  coated  with  a  chill  dew  which  soon  would 
whiten  with  the  night's  frost ;  everything  was 
wet  underfoot.  Even  in  the  "laigh  tonn  "  few 
of  the  people  were  "  about  the  doors."  Gleams 
of  ruddy  fire-light  showed  through  the  cottage 
windows,  often  over  a  moving  mass  of  heads,  of 
different  sizes,  the  children  sitting  about  "  read- 
ing their  books  "  as  became  a  Sabbath  evening, 
and  the  elders  on  either  side  of  the  fire  carrying 
on  solemn  "cracks,"  each  individual  furnishing 
a  remark  in  slow  succession.  In-doors  there  was 
something  drowsy  and  Sabbatical  in  the  air; 
but  there  was  nothing  drowsy  or  comfortable 
out-of-doors.  Randal  walked  toward  the  farm 
in  the  grim  gray  winterly  twilight,  wondering 
whether  he  could  make  any  plausible  errand  to 
the  house,  or  how  he  was  to  make  sure  of  seeing 
Rob.  But  Fortune  favored  him  in  this  respect, 
as  indeed  Fortune  could  scarcely  help  favoring 
any  one  who,  wanting  Rob  Glen,  walked  in  the 
twilight  toward  Earl's-lee.  When  he  was  with- 
in a  field  or  two  of  the  farm-house.  Randal  be- 
came aware  of  two  figures  in  the  shadow  of  a 
hedge -row,  and  of  a  murmur  of  voices.  He 
divined  that  it  was  a  "  lad  and  lass."  Lads  and 
lasses  are  nowhere  more  common  spectacles, 
"courting"  nowhere  a  more  clearly  recognized 
fact  than  in  Fife.  Randal  took  care  not  to  look 
at  them  or  disturb  them  ;  and  by-and-by  he  saw 
a  little  figure  detach  itself  out  of  the  shadows 
and  run  across  the  field.  Who  could  it  be? 
Their  fervor  of  love-making  must  be  warm  in- 
deed to  enable  them  to  bear  the  miseries  of  this 
"  drear-nighted  November."  He  went  on  with 
a  certain  sympathy  and  a  little  sigh.     Randal 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


132 


did  not  feel  as  if  there  could  ever  be  any  oc- 
casion for  "courting"  on  his  part.  lie  was 
vaguely  excited ;  but  sadness,  more  than  any 
other  feeling,  filled  his  mind;  if  he  saw  Rob  be- 
fore him,  what  was  he  to  say  to  him?  "Ah, 
Glen!"  he  exclaimed,  "is  that  you?"  while  yet 
this  question  was  fresh  in  his  mind. 

Rob  came  forward  from  the  shadow  with  ev- 
ident discomfiture.  He  recognized  the  new- 
comer sooner  than  Randal  knew  him.  Was  he, 
tiien,  the  man  who  had  been  whispering  behind 
the  hedge,  from  whose  side  that  little  female 
figure,  not,  he  thought,  unknown  to  Randal  ei- 
ther, had  flitted  so  hurriedly  away?  Hot  indig- 
nation rose  in  Randal's  veins. 

"Can  it  be  you?"  he  said,  with  a  sudden 
mingling  of  displeasure  and  contempt  with  the 
surprise  in  his  voice. 

"Not  a  pleasant  evening  for  a  walk,"  said 
Rob.  He  was  uneasy  too,  but  he  did  not  see 
what  he  could  do  better  than  talk,  and  forestall 
if  possible  any  objection  the  other  might  seem 
disposed  to  make.  "  I  dropped  something  in 
the  ditch,"  he  said,  accusing  as  he  excused  him- 
self, "  but  it  is  evidently  too  dark  to  hope  to  find 
it  now." 

"You  are  still  staying  here?"  said  Randal, 
still  more  contemptuous  of  the  lie,  and  feeling  a 
secret  desire,  which  almost  mastered  him,  to 
push  his  companion  into  the  chill  ooze  under  the 
hedge-row.  "Though  the  country,"  he  added, 
"has  not  the  same  attraction  as  when  we  met 
last." 

"No,"  said  Rob,  with  a  slight  falter,  "that  is 
true;  but  necessity  has  no  law.  I  am  here  be- 
cause— I  have  nothing  to  do  elsewhere.  I  am 
not  so  lucky  as  you,  to  be  able  to  hold  by  and 
follow  out  the  trade  to  which  1  have  been  bred." 

"That  is  a  misfortune,  certainly." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  misfortune  —  and  such  a  mis- 
fortune in  my  case  as  you  can  scarcely  realize. 
I  have  disappointed  my  friends  and  put  them 
out  of  temper.  There  could  be  no  harm  in 
abandoning  the  law,  but  there  is  great  harm  in 
abandoning  the  Church." 

"  There  is  always  harm,  I  suppose,"  said  Ran- 
dal, "in  throwing  up  the  career  in  which  our 
training  can  tell.  Church  or  law,  it  does  not  so 
much  matter;  there  is  always  disappointment 
in  such  a  drawing  back." 

"Perhaps  that  is  true;  but  most  in  the  first, 
and  most  of  all  in  my  class.  Yes,"  said  Rob, 
suddenly,  "you  may  say  there  is  less  attraction 
now.  The  last  night  we  met,  it  was  just  before 
the  Leslies  left  EaiTs-hall." 

"I  remember  the  night,"  said  Randal,  with 
some  irrestrainable  bitterness  in  his  tone. 

"I  am  sure  you  do.  I  felt  it  in  your  tone  to- 
night. You  disapproved  of  me  then  ;  and  now," 
said  Rob,  with  an  air  almost  of  derision,  and  he 
laughed  a  little  nervous,  self-conscious  laugh. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  any  right  either  of  ap- 
proval or  disapproval,"  said  Randal.  Anger 
was  rising  hotter  and  hotter  within  him ;  but 
what  was  it  she  wanted  him  to  do? 

"No  right;  but  people  don't  wait  for  that," 
said  Rob.  He  was  not  comfortable  nor  happy 
about  his  good-fortune.  He  had  got  Margaret's 
note,  and  it  had  stung  him  deeply.  And  here 
was  one  who  could  communicate  with  her, 
though  he  could  not  —  who  belonged  to  her 
sphere,  which  he  did  not,     "We  all  approve  or 


disapprove  by  instinct,  whatever  right  we  may 
have.  If  you  had  felt  more  sympathy  with  me, 
I  might  have  found  a  friend  in  you,"  Rob  went 
on,  after  a  pause.  "  When  two  people,  so  dif- 
ferent in  external  circumstances  as  Margaret  and 
myself,  love  eacli  other,  a  mutual  friend  is  of  tlie 
greatest  advantage  to  both." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Randal's  face  in  the  dark- 
ness. He  felt  the  veins  fill  and  throb  upon  his 
forehead,  and  fury  took  possession  of  his  heart. 
He  could  have  seized  the  fellow  by  the  throat 
who  thus  wantonly  and  without  necessity  had 
introduced  Margaret's  name.  But  then  —  who 
could  tell? — this  office  of  mutual  friend  might 
be  the  very  thing  she  had  intended  him  to  take. 

"I  cannot  see  what  use  I  could  be — " 

"You  could  be  of  the  greatest  use.  You 
could  find  out  for  me,  without  suspicion,  a  hun- 
dred things  I  want  to  know ;  or,  if  you  fell  un- 
der the  suspicion  of  being  after  Margaret  your- 
self," said  Rob,  with  the  unconscious  vulgarity 
which  he  had  never  been  able  to  get  over,  "  there 
would  be  no  harm  done.  They  would  not  turn 
you  to  the  door  for  it.  You  see  our  correspond- 
ence has  to  be  of  a  very  limited  character  till 
I  she  is  of  age." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Randal,  hotly,  "  that  to 
i  carry  on  such  a  correspondence  at  all  is  right  or 
j  honorable  without  the  sanction  of  the  friends? 
No  creature  so  young  "  (he  kept  to  words  as  im- 
personal as  possible,  not  feeling  able  to  use  a 
pronoun  to  indicate  Margaret,  whose  sacred  name 
ought  never  to  have  been  breathed)  "  can  under- 
stand what  such  a  correspondence  is.  Glen,  since 
you  ask  me,  as  a  man  of  honor  you  ought  not"  to 
do  it.     I  am  sure  you  ought  not  to  do  it." 

"It  is  all  very  well  talking,"  said  Rob,  "but 
what  am  I  to  do  ?  Lose  sight  of  her  altogether — 
for  three  long  years?" 

"Is  that  the  time  fixed?"  said  Randal,  with 
dismay. 

"  When  she  comes  of  age.  Then,  whatever 
happens,  I  have  sufficient  faith  that  all  will  go 
merry  as  a  marriage-bell.  But  in  the  mean 
time — "  Rob  said,  half-bragging,  half-mournful- 
ly  :  he  was  in  reality  in  the  lowest  depths  of  dis- 
couragement ;  but  the  last  person  to  whom  he 
would  have  confided  this  was  Randal  Burnside. 

Randal  was  struck  with  a  sudden  thought. 
"Look  here,"  he  said,  somewhat  hoarsely,  "I 
have  given  you  my  opinion,  which  I  have  no 
right  to  do  ;  but  you  may  make  some  use  of  me 
in  return,  if  you  like.  Look  here,  Glen  ;  I'll  get 
you  something  to  do  in  my  uncle's  office  in  Ed- 
inburgh, which  will  be  better  than  hanging  on 
here,  if  you'll  have  patience  and  wait  till  the 
time  you  mention,  and  take  my  advice." 

Was  this  what  she  wanted  him  to  do?  The 
effort  was  a  great  one ;  for  Randal  felt  a  loath- 
ing grow  over  him  for  the  under-bred  fellow  to 
whom  such  celestial  good-fortune  and  unexam- 
pled happiness  had  fallen.  To  annoy  and  harass 
himself  with  the  constant  sight  of  him  in  order  to 
leave  her  free  and  unmolested,  it  was  a  sacrifice 
of  which  Margaret  would  never  know  the  full 
difficultv.    Was  this  what  she  wanted  him  to  do? 


130 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


Aubrey  Bellingham  was  in  the  hall  at  the 
Grange  when  Margaret,  all  wet  and  weary,  came 
in  from  that  journey  to  the  post-office.  She  was 
very  anxious  to  get  to  the  shelter  of  her  own 
room,  not  only  because  she  was  feeling  ill  and 
wretched,  hut  for  the  more  immediately  impor- 
tant reason  that  she  was  feverishly  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  her  wet  dress  before  Jean  should  see  her; 
for  Margaret  knew  that  Jean  would  more  easily 
forgive  a  slight  moral  backsliding  than  her  di- 
shevelled appearance,  blown  about  by  the  wind 
and  soaked  by  the  rain,  and  not  without  traces 
of  the  mud.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  own  plight, 
though  she  had  been  too  tired  and  had  felt  too 
miserable  the  latter  half  of  the  road,  to  keep  up 
the  struggle  with  the  elements.  Her  feet  made 
a  splashing  noise  upon  the  tiles  as  she  came  in, 
and  were  cold  as  two  pieces  of  lead  ;  so  were  the 
hands,  with  one  of  which  she  had  tried  to  keep 
up  her  umbrella,  till  it  was  blown  inside  out, 
when  she  gave  up  the  struggle.  A  faint  glim- 
mer of  anger  rose  in  her  when  she  saw  Aubrey, 
all  trim  and  dry  and  point  devise  as  he  always 
was,  evidently  waiting  for  her  with  the  intention 
of  speaking  to  her  in  the  hall. 

"  How  wet  you  are!"  he  said;  "I  could  not 
believe  my  eyes  when  I  saw  you  out  in  this  rain. 
Could  nobody  have  gone  to  the  village  instead 
of  you  ?     Why  did  you  not  send  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  you,  Mr.  Aubrey  ?  It  would  have  been 
worse  for  you  than  me,"  said  Margaret.  "I 
never  thought  much  of  the  weather  ;  but  I  can- 
not wait  now  to  talk.  I  must  run  and  change 
my  dress.  Jean,"  she  added,  ruefully  looking  at 
her  spoiled  trimmings,  "will  be  angry  about  the 
crape." 

"  I  hope  I  managed  rightly,"  he  said,  follow- 
ing her  to  the  stair.  "1  hope  I  did  what  you 
wanted  ?" 

Margaret  gazed  at  him  with  blank,  wide-open 
eyes.  What  had  he  done  ?  She  had  forgotten 
the  silent  appeal  she  had  made  to  him  in  her 
pain.  Aubrey  was  a  man  of  sense,  and  he  per- 
ceived that  to  insist  upon  this  good  office  which 
he  had  in  reality  done  out  of  pure  good-nature, 
without  any  thought  of  interest,  was  more  likely 
to  hurt  than  to  help  him  now ;  so  he  added  hur- 
riedly, "I  did  not.  see  how  wet  you  are;  I  can- 
not detain  you  an  instant  longer.  Why  didn't 
you  send  me  ?     You  will  be  ill  after  this." 

"  Oh !  I  never  take  cold,"  said  Margaret ;  but 
how  glad  she  was  to  struggle  up-stairs,  holding 
up  the  clinging  skirts  of  her  wet  dress.  Fortu- 
nately, Mrs.  Bellingham,  who  had  a  thorough  in- 
stinct of  comfort,  kept  fires  in  all  the  bedrooms, 
so  that  Margaret  had  the  glimmer  of  a  little 
brightness  to  console  her  in  the  bodily  misery 
which  for  the  moment  prevailed  over  all  the  dis- 
tresses of  her  mind.  She  took  off  her  wet  cloth- 
ing with  great  haste,  and  with  an  impulse  to  hide 
it,  to  keep  it  from  Jean's  keen  eyes ;  and  when 
she  "  was  fit  to  be  seen,"  she  sat  down  to  think 
how  she  could  explain  that  hurried  errand  to 
Jean.  The  post-bag  went  from  the  Grange  twice 
a  day,  in  a  regular  and  orderly  manner,  as  it 
ought.  What  need  had  she  to  rush  through  the 
rain  with  her  letters  ?  But  this  problem  proved 
too  much  for  poor  Margaret's  brain  :  her  head 
kept  getting  hotter  and  hotter;  her  feet,  not- 
withstanding the  fire,  would  not  get  warm  ;   her 


bosom  seemed  bound  as  by  an  iron  chain ;  she 
could  not  get  her  breath.  What  could  be  the 
matter  with  her?  Jean  had  said  she  had  a  cold 
on  the  previous  night;  she  supposed  it  must  be 
that — a  bad  cold  ;  how  stupid  and  how  wretched 
she  felt !  She  sank  back  into  the  corner  of  the 
sofa  which  was  opposite  the  fire  ;  it  was  very 
lazy  of  her  to  do  so,  she  knew,  in  broad  daylight, 
when  there  was  all  the  day's  work  to  do.  Mar- 
garet planned  to  herself  that  she  would  do  it  to- 
morrow—her practising  and  her  French  exer- 
cises, and  all  the  little  studies  with  which,  under 
Mrs.  Bellingham's  energetic  guidance,  she  was 
making  up  for  her  neglected  education.  She 
would  do  them  to-morrow — yes,  to-morrow  ;  but 
was  not  to-morrow  Sunday,  when  you  cannot 
work  ?  Was  not  night  coining,  in  which  you 
could  do  no  work  ?  Was  not —  Here  Margaret 
seemed  to  break  off  with  a  start,  and  found  that 
she  had  been  dozing,  dozing  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  in  broad  daylight!  It  seemed  impossible. 
She  woke  wretched,  as  young  and  healthy  creat- 
ures do  after  such  a  feverish  sleep.  How  could 
anybody  sleep  in  the  day?  and  how,  of  all  won- 
ders, was  it  that  Margaret  herself  had  slept  in 
the  day?  It  seemed  something  incredible ;  but 
before  she  knew  what  was  coming,  in  those  trou- 
bled wanderings,  she  had  dropped  again  into  an- 
other snatch  of  uncanny  sleep.  She  did  not  hear 
the  luncheon  bell,  nor  if  she  had  heard  it  would 
she  have  had  energy  enough  to  go  down-stairs, 
or,  indeed,  to  get  up  from  Iter  seat ;  and  when 
Miss  Leslie,  coming  up,  hurried  into  the  room, 
in  wonder  and  alarm,  to  call  her,  Margaret  was 
found  propped  up  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  all 
flushed  and  confused,  her  pretty  hair  falling  out 
of  its  fastenings,  her  hands  hot  and  feverish.  She 
woke  with  a  start  when  her  sister  opened  the  door. 
"Oh  !  where  am  I?  where  am  I  ?"  she  cried. 

After  this  there  was  nothing  but  alarm  in  the 
house.  The  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  Miss  Grace, 
who  had  cried  herself  almost  into  hysterics,  and 
could  do  nothing  but  kiss  her  little  sister,  and 
ask,  in  a  melancholy  voice,  "Are  you  better — do 
you  think  you  are  a  little  better,  darling  Marga- 
ret ?"  was  turned  out  and  sent  away,  while  Jean 
hastily  took  the  place  of  nurse.  If  Jean  had  a 
fault  as  a  nurse,  it  was  that  she  required  so  many 
preparations.  She  assured  Margaret  it  was  noth- 
ing at  all  but  a  feverish  cold,  and  that  it  would 
be  better  to-morrow;  but  she  provisioned  the 
room,  as  John  had  provisioned  old  Sir  Ludovic's, 
as  for  a  siege  of  six  weeks  at  least,  and  took  her 
place  in  a  dressing-gown  and  large  cap  by  the 
bedside,  like  a  woman  who  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  hold  out  to  the  end.  Margaret,  how- 
ever, was  too  ill  to  be  alarmed  by  these  precau- 
tions ;  she  was  too  ill  to  mind  anything  except 
the  pain  which  had  her  by  the  throat,  and  check- 
ed her  breathing  and  filled  her  veins  with  fire. 
It  was  not  a  bad  cold  only,  but  that  sublimation 
and  intensification  of  cold  which  carries  death 
and  destruction  under  the  name  of  congestion  of 
the  lungs.  She  was  very  ill  for  a  week,  during 
which  time  Mrs.  Bellingham  kept  heroically  by 
her  bedside,  resolute  to  keep  out  Grace  and  to 
fight  the  malady  in  the  correct  and  enlightened 
way.  Aubrey  had  to  search  through  all  the  ad- 
joining town,  from  shop  to  shop,  for  a  thermom- 
eter good  enough  to  satisfy  his  aunt,  which  she 
received  from  his  hands  in  all  the  mingled  so- 
lemnitv  and  familiarity  of  her  nursing-dress. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


137 


"  I  am  sure  the  Red  Cross  lias  nothing  half 
so  imposing,"  he  said,  in  his  flippant  way  ;  "you 
would  strike  an  army  with  awe."  He  himself 
had  hut  a  dull  time  of  it  down-stairs,  lie  re- 
mained till  Margaret  was  out  of  danger — very 
kindly  solicitous — hut  when  the  crisis  was  over 
he  withdrew.  "You  see  I  can  make  no  progress 
now,"  he  said,  on  the  occasion  of  an  interview 
which  Mrs.  Bellingham  awarded  him,  when  the 
good  news  was  proclaimed  ;  "  but  perhaps  a 
week  or  two  hence  I  may  come  in  with  the  chick- 
en and  champagne,  and  help  to  amuse  the  con- 
valescent. One  may  make  a  great  deal  of  run- 
ning with  a  convalescent,  Aunt  Jean." 

"I  wonder  how  you  can  talk  so  lightly,  when 
we  have  just  escaped  such  a  danger,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellingham.  "Not  only  Margaret,  poor  dear, 
but  the  property  would  have  gone  to  quite  a  dis- 
tant branch  of  the  family,  and  even  the  savings 
of  the  minority.  I  can't  bear  to  think  what 
might  have  happened.  But  you  can  do  nothing 
now,  it  is  true ;  you  may  as  well  go  and  return 
when  you  will  be  of  use.  But  mind  and  go  to 
the  very  best  shop  you  can  find  in  town,  and  get 
me  a  really  good  thermometer.  I  put  no  faith 
in  anything  that  is  bought  in  the  country."  And 
that  night,  for  the  first  time,  Mrs.  Bellingham 
permitted  herself  to  go  to  bed. 

It  would  be  needless  to  follow  Margaret 
through  all  the  feverish  thoughts  that  assailed 
her,  or  even  those  more  coherent  ones  that  came 
after  the  first  stupor  of  illness.  She  recovered 
the  power  of  thought  now  and  then  by  intervals, 
as  the  fever  abated,  and  then,  no  doubt,  soft, 
dreamy  musings,  half  dismal,  half  pleasant,  of  a 
pretty  grave  somewhere  which  would  cut  all  the 
knots  that  bound  her,  and  make  all  things  clear, 
came  into  her  mind.  If  she  were  to  die,  how 
little  would  it  matter  whether  Jean  was  angry, 
whether  Ludovic  scolded!  They  would  all  for- 
give her,  even  if  she  had  been  silly.  And  though 
poor  Rob,  to  whom  her  heart  melted,  as  the  one 
person  whom  she  felt  sure  (besides  Bell)  to  he 
very  fond  of  her,  would,  no  doubt,  "break  his 
heart"  over  that  grave  of  hers,  it  would,  she 
thought,  be  less  hard  for  him,  than  to  find  out 
how  little  pleasure  she  took  in  the  bond  between 
them,  and  to  bear  the  brunt  of  that  struggle 
which  she  had  so  little  heart  to  encounter — the 
struggle  with  Ludovic  and  Jean.  And  then  an- 
other thing  :  what  would  it  matter  if  Aubrey 
were  right  after  all,  and  it  was  really  Effie,  Effie 
that  Randal  Burnside  cared  about  ?  They  would 
be  happy,  no  doubt ;  and  they  would  sometimes 
give  a  sigh  to  poor  little  Margaret,  and  tell  each 
other  that  they  never  thought  she  would  live  long. 
This  wrung  Margaret's  heart  with  an  exquisite 
pity  for  her  poor  young  tender  self,  cut  down 
like  a  flower.  And  as  the  fever  recurred,  she 
would  lose  herself  in  wonderings  where  they 
would  bury  her ;  if  they  would  take  her  down 
to  the  Kirkton,  and  lav  her  with  her  father  in  the 
breezy  mound  where  she  would  be  able  to  see 
her  own  hills,  and  hear,  on  stormy  nights,  the 
moaning  of  the  sea?  And  then  it  would  seem 
to  Margaret  that  she  was  being  rolled  and  jolted 
through  a  vast  darkness  going  toward  that  last 
home  of  the  Leslies — dead  at  eighteen,  but  yet 
feeling  and  seeing  everything,  and  half  pleased 
with  the  universal  pity.  Over  all  these  wan- 
derings of  sick  and  feverish  fancy  Jean  presided 
in  her  big  cap,  the  shadow  of  which  against  the 


wall— sometimes  rigidly  steady,  with  a  steadiness 
that  only  Jean  could  possess,  sometimes  nodding 
so  that  "Margaret  trembled,  feeling  that  nothing 
could  survive  so  great  a  downfall — ran  through 
them  all.  Jean,  in  her  big  cap,  was  very  tender 
to  the  girl.  She  was  very  quiet  in  her  move- 
ments, and,  notwithstanding  the  nodding  of  the 
cap,  very  vigilant,  never  forgetting  an  hour  or 
dose. 

The  strangest  week  it  was! — the  time  some- 
times looking  not  an  hour,  since  she  had  begun 
to  doze  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  sometimes  look- 
ing like  a  year,  during  which  she  had  been  wan- 
dering through  dreariest  wilds  of  confusion  and 
pain.  When  she  came  to  herself  at  last,  with- 
out any  choking,  without  any  suffering,  but  ut- 
terly weak  and  passive,  Margaret  did  not  quite 
know  whether  she  was  glad  that  she  was  better, 
or  disappointed  to  feel  that  everything  outside 
her  was  just  of  as  much  consequence  as  ever ; 
that  she  would  have  to  marry  Rob  Glen,  and  sub- 
mit to  Jean's  scolding,  and  wonder  if  it  was  true 
about  Randal  and  Effie — just  the  same. 

But  she  did  not  recover  in  the  speedy  and  sat- 
isfactory way  which  was  desired.  When  she 
got  what  her  anxious  attendants  called  almosi 
well,  and  got  up  and  with  an  effort  got  herself 
dressed,  it  was  astonishing  to  find  how  few  wishes 
she  had.  She  did  not  want  anything.  She  did 
not  care  about  going  down-stairs,  did  not  want 
to  get  out,  and  was  quite  content  to  be  let  alone 
in  her  corner  of  the  sofa,  reading  sometimes,  still 
oftener  doing  nothing  at  all.  At  this  point  of 
her  convalescence  it  was  that  Jean  had  retired, 
leaving  the  remainder  of  the  nursing  to  Grace, 
who,  with  a  great  grievance  at  her  heart  on  the 
score  of  being  shut  out  of  the  sick-room,  took 
the  place  now  ofi'ered  her  with  enthusiasm,  and 
did  her  best  to  administer  the  wines  and  jellies, 
the  beef-tea,  the  concentrated  nourishment  of  all 
kinds  which  were  wanted  to  make  her  charge 
strong  again.  One  day,  however,  Jean,  return- 
ing from  some  outside  occupation,  found  the 
sick-room  in  a  grievous  state  of  agitation.  Mar- 
garet had  fainted,  for  no  particular  cause  that 
any  one  knew ;  and  Grace  and  Miss  Parker 
stood  weeping  over  her,  scarcely  capable  of  do- 
ing anything  but  weep. 

"Her  mother,  bless  her,  was  just  like  that," 
Miss  Parker  was  saying.  "I  often  thought  af- 
terward if  we  had  taken  her  abroad  for  the  win- 
ter it  might  have  been  the  saving  of  her.  The 
doctor  said  so,  but  no  one  would  believe  it.  Oh, 
if  we  had  only  taken  her  abroad !" 

This  was  said  in  the  intervals  of  fanning  Mar- 
garet, who  lay  extended  on  the  sofa  as  pale  as 
marble,  whileGrace  held  salts  to  her  nose.  Mar- 
garet came  to  herself  as  her  sister  came  into  the 
room,  with  a  shiver  and  long  sigh,  and  Jean, 
rushing  in,  cleared  away  the  two  incapable  per- 
sons and  resumed  the  charge  of  affairs.  But, 
like  a  wise  woman,  she  took  a  hint  even  from 
her  inferiors.  When  she  had  restored  poor 
Margaret  and  made  all  quiet  and  comfortable 
round  her,  and  ordained  that  she  was  not  to  talk 
or  be  talked  to.  Jean's  heart  throbbed  with  ter- 
ror. Not  only  did  Margaret  herself  seem  in 
renewed  danger,  but  there  was  the  estate  to  be 
considered,  which  would  go  away  to  a  distant 
cousin,  and  do  no  one  (as  Mrs.  Bellingham  said) 
any  good.  When  the  doctor  came,  she  consulted 
him  with  great  anxiety  on  the  subject.     "Yes," 


138 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


the  doctor  said ;  "no  doubt  it  would  be  very 
good  for  her  to  go  to  Mentone  for  the  winter." 
He  would  not  say  she  was  in  any  particular  dan- 
ger now,  but  delicate,  very  delicate ;  all  the  Sed- 
leys  had  been  delicate,  and  it  must  not  be  forgot- 
ten that  her  mother  died  young.  All  this  made 
Jean  tremble.  The  girl  herself,  though  she  had 
been  almost  a  stranger  to  her  a  little  while  ago, 
had  got  hold  of  her  fussy  but  kind  nature.  She 
had  nursed  Margaret  successfully  through  a  se- 
rious illness ;  was  she  to  submit  to  have  her 
snatched  out  of  her  hands  now  for  no  reason  at 
all,  with  no  disease  to  justify  the  catastrophe? 
Jean  said  No  stoutly.     She  would  not  submit. 

"  My  dear,  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  Men- 
tone,"  she  said.  "1  hope  you  will  like  it.  It 
is  very  pretty,  you  know,  and  all  that.  There 
are  a  great  many  invalids  ;  but,  poor  things,  they 
can't  help  being  invalids.  I  am  very  sorry  we 
sha'n't  enjoy  Christmas  at  the  Court ;  that  is  a 
thing  that  would  have  done  you  good.  But,  to 
be  sure,  as  we  are  still  wearing  deep  mourning, 
we  could  only  have  gone  to  the  family  parties, 
which  are  not  very  amusing.  Grace,  you  may 
as  well  begin  your  packing  ;  you  always  take  such 
a  time.  I  am  going  to  take  Margaret  to  Men- 
tone." 

"Oh!"  cried  Grace,  ready  to  cry,  "dearest 
Jean !  then  the  doctor  thought  that  dear  Mar- 
garet— " 

"The  doctor  thought  nothing  about  Mar- 
garet," cried  Mrs.  Bellingham.  "The  doctor 
thought  what  I  told  him.  I  said  Mentone  would 
do  the  child  good  after  her  illness,  and  all  that 
has  happened,  and  he  agreed,  of  course.  That 
is  all  they  can  do.  They  tell  you  to  go  if  they 
think  you  will  like  it.  If  they  think  you  will 
not  like  it,  they  recommend  you  to  stay  at  home. 
I'll  take  Aubrey  with  me:  he  will  always  amuse 
Margaret. " 

"And,  dearest  Margaret,  how  good  it  is  of 
dear  Jean  to  settle  it  all !  Do  you  think  you 
will  like—" 

"Like!  of  course  she  will  like  it,"  said  Jean. 
"We  shall  start  in  a  week;  so  you  had  better 
speak  to  Steward  about  your  packing.  A  day 
will  do  for  Margaret  and  me." 

"Mentone?  that  is  Italy!"  said  pale  Mar- 
garet, with  a  little  glow  rising  upon  her  face ; 
and  then  she  put  her  pale  little  hands  together, 
which  were  as  small  as  a  child's,  and  said  to  her- 
self, inaudibly,  "That  is  away!" 

She  got  a  little  better  from  that  hour.  All 
the  circumstances  of  her  bondage,  all  the  risk  of 
discovery,  the  chance  of  agitating  letters,  such 
as  those  which  had  been  the  cause  of  the  ex- 
posure that  had  ended  in  her  illness,  had  come 
rushing  back  upon  her  memory.  And  it  was  a 
sudden  intimation  of  some  letters  that  had  been 
put  aside  for  her  that  had  caused  her  faint,  over- 
powering her,  in  her  weakness,  with  sudden  agi- 
tation. Letters!  What  might  they  be?  She 
dared  not  ask  for  them.  She  dared  not  say  any- 
thing about  them  in  case  of  questions  which  she 
could  not  answer.  He  might  be  coming,  for 
aught  she  knew,  to  haunt  the  neighborhood  of 
the  house,  to  watch  for  her,  to  waylay  her,  to 
claim  and  take  possession  of  her,  whether  she 
liked  or  not.  It  is  not  to  be  described  what  a 
soft  gush  of  ease  and  relief  and  quiet  came  over 
her,  when  she  realized  that  she  was  now  to  be 
taken  away.     Away!  out  of  reach  of  all  painful 


visitors,  where  it  would  be  too  far  for  him  to 
come  after  her,  where  she  would  be  safe.  Mar- 
garet mended  from  that  hour.  And  when,  by 
means  of  Miss  Parker,  of  whom  she  was  not 
afraid,  she  managed  that  evening,  while  Jean 
and  Grace  were  at  dinner,  to  get  possession  of 
the  letters,  and  found  one  from  Bell  giving  an 
account  of  the  execution  of  her  commission,  and 
another  from  Randal,  her  heart  threw  off  its 
burden,  although  Randal's  letter  filled  her  with 
strange  yet. pleasant  excitement.  She  was  not 
frightened  by  it  as  she  had  been  by  Rob's  letter, 
but  felt,  on  the  contrary,  a  great  thrill  of  eager- 
ness and  wonder.  Would  he  say  anything  about 
Effie  ?     This,  however,  was  all  Randal  said : 

"Dear  Margaret, — If  I  may  call  my  old 
playfellow  so,  I  got  your  message,  and  thank 
you  most  cordially  for  it.  I  understood  it,  though 
I  did  not  know  what  you  wanted  me  to  do.  But 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  did.  I  saw  him  :  he  was 
anxious  and  complaining.  I  advised  him  to 
have  patience,  not  to  attempt  to  write,  which 
would  probably  put  you  in  a  false  position,  and 
offered  him  a  place  in  my  uncle's  office.  He  has 
accepted,  and  he  will  take  my  advice.  If  this  is 
not  what  you  meant,  let  me  know  by  one  word. 
I  thought  it  was  for  the  best ;  but  if  silence  is 
disagreeable  to  you,  it  is  I  that  am  to  be  blamed, 
not  any  one  else.  Thank  you,  with  all  my  heart, 
for  understanding  that  I  would  serve  you,  if  there 
was  any  need,  with  my  life.     Yours  ever, 

"Raxdal  Bdrnside." 

How  her  heart  bounded  !  She  seemed  to  have 
found  some  one  who  would  set  things  right,  who 
would  manage  those  disturbed  affairs  for  her.  It 
did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  had  no  right  to  put 
such  a  charge  upon  Randal,  or  make  him  her 
agent.  That  idea  never  entered  her  mind.  How 
well  he  had  divined  what  she  wanted !  The  way 
in  which  he  told  her  of  it  was  very  curt  and  brief, 
it  is  true,  and  she  felt  disposed  to  wonder  why 
he  had  put  it  in  such  few  words ;  but  it  relieved 
her  of  all  her  fears.  It  was  in  Randal's  hands 
now.  Randal  would  not  let  Mm  come  to  worry 
her.  Randal  would  save  her  from  all  this  trou- 
ble. Jean  heard  her  laugh,  as  she  was  coming 
up-stairs — heard  her  laugh,  the  little  monkey! 
and  Mrs.  Bellingham  was  so  glad  that  she  could 
not  be  angry,  though  had  this  outburst  happened 
twenty-four  hours  sooner,  she  probably  would  not 
have  taken  her  away. 

And  she  was  quite  equal  to  the  journey  when 
the  day  came,  though  she  was  still  weak  and 
white.  One  incident  occurred,  however,  before 
they  started,  which  very  much  surprised  Marga- 
ret. She  was  in  the  wainscot  parlor,  alone,  re- 
clining among  her  cushions,  when  Mr.  St.  John 
came  in.  The  elder  ladies  were  out,  and  Mar- 
garet had  been  left  alone.  Perhaps  it  was  Miss 
Grace  who  had  suggested  this  to  the  gentle  An- 
glican. He  came  in  and  sat  down  beside  her. 
with  eyes  enlarged  by  emotion  and  anxiety  ;  and 
after  he  had  told  her  how  much  sympathy  her 
illness  had  brought  out,  and  how  many  people 
had  asked  for  her,  and  how  fervently  they  had 
all  thought  of  her  when  the  prayer  for  sick  per- 
sons came  in  the  Litany,  Mr.  St.  John  startled 
Margaret  beyond  measure  by  suddenly  telling 
her  that  he  loved  her,  and  asking  if  she  would 
be  his  wife.     "  Me?"  she  cried,  with  wondering, 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


133 


questioning  eyes,  id  pvofoundest  bewilderment 
and  surprise,  and  with  her  usual  Scotch  indiffer- 
ence to  her  pronouns.  !She  grew  paler  than  ever 
with  horror.  "Oh,  it  cannot  be  me!"  she  said, 
shaking  her  head.  Put  this  gave  her  a  shock 
of  surprise  and  pain.  She  did  not  want  to  hurt 
anybody's  feelings.  Could  it  be  anything  in  her 
that  made  this  painful  thing  happen  over  again  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Aubrey  joined  the  travellers  in  London.  It 
was  very  self-denying  of  him,  very  kind,  to  give 
up  all  the  festivities  at  the  Court,  and  all  his 
many  Christmas  invitations,  in  order  to  accom- 
pany and  take  care  of  a  party  of  ladies  on  a  jour- 
ney to  Mentone,  his  aunt  said;  "I  will  not  say 
that  it  is  not  a  sacrifice  to  myself  to  give  up 
Christmas  at  the  Court.  I  don't  grudge  the  sac- 
rifice, my  dear,  for  your  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of 
your  health  ;  but  I  will  not  say  it  is  nothing  and 
does  not  matter,  as  Grace  does.  Don't  you  be- 
lieve, either,  that  it  does  not  matter  to  Grace. 
She  likes  her  amusement  just  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  us,  though,  to  be  sure,  our  mourning  would 
make  a  difference.  But  Aubrey  is  a  young  man, 
and  has  as  many  engagements  as  he  can  set  his 
face  to;  and  we  are  nothing  hut  a  couple  of  old 
aunts,  and  you  a  bit  of  :i  little  girl.  Yet  when 
he  can  be  of  use  he  never  hesitates.  You  ought 
to  be  very  grateful,  Margaret,  for  all  he  is  doing 
for  you." 

"And  so  I  am,"  said  Margaret:  it  was  very 
kind.  And  though  Aubrey,  when  he  arrived, 
scouted  the  notion,  and  declared  that  he  would 
go  anywhere  to  get  rid  of  the  festivities  of  the 
Court,  this  did  not  make  any  impression  upon 
the  ladies,  who  praised  his  self-denial  to  the  echo. 
As  for  Margaret,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
his  presence  made  the  expedition  very  much 
more  agreeable  to  her.  Jean  and  Grace  were 
very  kind  :  but  Jean  was  a  little  overpowering  in 
her  manifold  arrangements,  and  Grace's  tender- 
ness did  not  always  fall  in  with  the  girl's  humor, 
who  was  apt  to  be  impatient  now  and  then. 
Margaret  got  better  day  by  day;  and  there  was 
so  great  a  load  lifted  from  her  mind  that  she  was 
able  to  enjoy  everything  as  she  had  never  done 
before.  No  chance  now  that  she  should  be  fol- 
lowed and  pursued  by  any  attendant  of  whom 
she  would  be  afraid.  Every  step  they  took  made 
that  more  impossible.  She  seemed  to  get  out 
of  the  range  of  Rob  Glen  altogether  when  she 
crossed  the  Channel,  not  to  say  that  Randal  had 
already  made  her  deliverance  certain. 

She  dwelt  upon  this  action  of  Randal  in  many 
a  musing,  with  mingled  admiration  and  grati- 
tude. How  clever  it  was  of  him  to  divine  what 
she  wanted  to  be  done!  The  confusion  of  the 
moment  had  been  partly  to  blame  for  the  inco- 
herent message  she  had  sent ;  but  it  was  not  al- 
together the  confusion  of  the  moment.  There 
had  been,  besides,  a  reluctance  to  mention  the 
name  of  Rob  Glen  to  Randal,  a  desire  to  imply, 
rather  than  to  state  distinctly,  what  she  wanted 
him  to  do.  The  vagueness  was  at  least  partly 
voluntary,  and  partly  she  did  not  know  what  she 
wanted  to  be  done.  She  wanted  something, 
some  one  to  interpose  who  should  know  better 
than  herself,  who  should  be  able  to  see  what  was 


most  expedient.  What  claim  had  she  on  Ran- 
dal that  he  should  have  done  so  much  for  her? 
And  what  inspiration  could  it  be  that  made  him 
divine  so  exactly  what  she  wanted — exactly  what 
she  wanted! — not  to  hurt  Rob's  feelings?  Uh 
no,  very  far  from  that.  If  she  had  not  been  un- 
willing to  hurt  Rob's  feelings,  it  would  never  have 
been  in  his  power  to  give  Iter  so  much  alarm  as 
he  had  done. 

Margaret  sat  and  thought  over  all  this  as  they 
crossed  the  bit  of  sea  between  Dover  and  Calais. 
Jean  and  Grace  had  betaken  themselves  to  a 
deck  cabin,  where  they  lay  each  on  a  sofa,  scarce- 
ly venturing  to  congratulate  each  other  that  the 
sea  was  not  quite  so  bad  as  usual,  but  prepared 
for  every  emergency,  and  Aubrey  had  gone  to 
the  other  end  to  smoke  a  cigar.  Margaret,  in 
her  excitement,  had  scorned  the  deck  cabin, 
which  both  her  sisters  protested  had  been  se- 
cured entirely  for  her.  She  was,  though  she  did 
not  as  yet  know  it,  one  of  those  happy  people 
who  are  excited,  not  prostrated,  by  the  sea.  She 
felt  that  she  would  like  to  walk  about  the  decks 
with  Aubrey ;  but  all  that  had  been  permitted 
to  her  was  to  sit  in  the  most  sheltered  corner, 
done  up  in  shawls  and  wraps,  so  as  to  lessen  all 
chances  of  taking  cold.  And  after  a  while,  when 
the  first  thrill  of  excitement  calmed  down,  and 
she  began  to  get  accustomed  to  her  own  emotion, 
and  the  fact  that  she  had  left  England,  and  the 
extraordinary  certainty  that  these  were  the  shores 
of  France  to  which  she  was  going,  the  extreme 
isolation  of  the  moment  drove  Margaret  back, 
as  is  so  often  the  case,  upon  her  most  private 
thoughts.  The  exhilaration  of  her  being,  which 
was  partly  convalescence  and  partly  change,  she 
attributed  entirely  to  the  fact  that,  for  the  mo- 
ment, she  was  free  —  delivered  from  the  danger 
that  had  seemed  about  to  overwhelm  her. 

This  consciousness  seemed  to  triumph  over 
everything — her  grief  which  was  still  so  recent, 
her  illness,  all  the  ills  her  flesh  was  heir  to.  And 
as  Margaret's  mind  was  growing  amidst  all  this 
agitation,  it  was  now,  at  this  moment,  in  the 
middle  of  the  Channel,  that  the  thought  sudden- 
ly occurred  to  her :  if  she  had  been  a  sensible 
girl — if  she  had  not  been  a  very  foolish  girl,  how- 
much  better  it  would  have  been  to  pay  no  heed 
to  Rob  Glen's  feelings — to  cut  at  once  this  bond 
which  was  all  his  making,  which  had  been  woven 
between  them  without  any  wish  of  hers — which 
she  had  always  rebelled  against,  except  those 
first  nights  when  she  had  scarcely  been  aware 
what  he  was  saying,  or  what  doing — when  she 
had  received  his  declarations  of  love  almost  with- 
out hearing  them,  and  allowed  his  kisses  on  her 
cheek  with  no  more  perception  of  their  meaning 
than  that  he  wanted  to  be  "  kind"  and  comfort 
her.  There  had  been  no  lover's  interview  be- 
tween them  in  which  Margaret  had  not — a  little 
— shrank  from  him.  She  had  held  herself  away 
as  far  as  she  could  from  his  embracing  arm. 
She  had  averted  her  cheek  as  much  as  possible ; 
but  it  had  been  impossible  for  her  to  fling  away 
from  him,  to  deliver  herself  altogether  at  the  cost 
of  Rob's  feelings.  This  she  had  not  strength  of 
mind  to  do.  But  now  she  perceived  that  it 
would  have  been  better  had  she  done  it  —  had 
she  said  plain  No,  when  he  declared  his  love  with 
all  the  hyperbole  of  passion. 

Margaret  knew  she  did  not  love  him,  certainly 
not  in  that  way ;  but  how  she  had  shrunk  from 


1.0 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


saving  it — from  letting  liim  feel  that  she  did  not 
care  for  him  as  he  cared  for  her !  How  it  would 
have  hurt  his  feelings !  Rather  put  up  with  some 
little  excess  of  affection  for  herself,  she  thought, 
than  humiliate  him  in  this  way !  And  now  was 
the  first  time  when  she  really  ashed  herself. 
Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  say  the  truth  ? 
The  question  flushed  Margaret's  cheek  with 
crimson,  then  sent  back  all  her  blood  in  a  sud- 
den flood  upon  her  heart.  She  did  not  venture 
to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  having  done  this 
— of  having  actually  said  to  him,  "It  is  a  mis- 
take; you  are  very — very  kind,  but  I  am  not  in 
love  with  you." 

The  mere  idea  of  it  appalled  her.  How  cruel 
it  would  have  been!  How  he  would  have 
"thought  shame!"  How  his  feelings  would 
have  been  hurt!  But  still  —  but  still  —  perhaps 
it  would  have  been  better.  She  had  just  become 
pale  and  chill  all  over  with  the  horrible  possibil- 
ity of  having  given  such  pain  as  this,  when  Au- 
brey's voice  startled  her.  He  was  saying,  anx- 
iously, 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  ill.  I  am  afraid  you 
are  feeling  cold.  Won't  you  go  into  the  cabin 
and  lie  down?  We  shall  be  there  in  half  an 
hour. " 

"Oh  no!"  said  Margaret,  her  paleness  disap- 
pearing in  another  sudden  blush.  The  days  of 
her  blushing — her  changes  of  countenance,  which 
were  like  the  coming  and  going  of  the  shadows — 
had  come  back.  "  Oh  no  !  I  am  not  cold  ;  and 
I  am  not  ill.     I  like  it.     But  I — was  thinking — " 

"I  wonder  if  I  might  offer  you  a  penny  for 
your  thoughts  ?  I  dare  say  they  are  worth  a 
great  deal  more  than  that.  Would  you  like  to 
liave  mine  ?  They  are  not  worth  the  half  of  a 
penny.  I  was  thinking  what  poor  creatures  we 
all  are  —  how  unamiable  we  are  on  board  of  a 
steamboat  (the  most  of  us).  Look  what  pictures 
of  misery  these  people  are !  It  is  not  rough,  but 
they  cannot  believe  that  it  may  not  be  rough  any 
moment:  when  there  is  a  pitch  —  there  —  like 
that!"  said  Aubrey,  himself  looking  a  little 
queer.  "They  think,  now  it  is  coming!  All 
their  strength  of  mind,  all  their  philosophy,  if 
they  have  any,  cannot  resist  one  heave  of  that 
green  water.  Ugh— here's  another!"  he  cried, 
relapsing  out  of  his  fine  moral  tone  into  abject 
sensationalism.  Margaret  laughed  as  merrily, 
with  her  eyes  dancing,  as  if  there  was  no  Rob 
Glen  in  the  world. 

"But  I  don't  care,"  she  cried.  "I  like  it: 
when  it  seems  to  go  from  under  your  feet,  and 
then  bounds  like  a  greyhound." 

"Don't  speak  of  it,"  he  said,  faintly.  "And 
why  is  it  you  are  so  superior  to  the  rest  of  us? 
Not  because  you  are  so  much  brighter,  and  purer, 
and  better — " 

"Oh  no!"  cried  Margaret,  interrupting  him. 
shaking  her  head  and  smiling.  "Oh  no!  for  I 
am  not  that — " 

"  You  should  not  contradict  people  who  are 
older  than  yourself — it  is  not  good  manners,"  he 
said,  solemnly.  "  You  are  all  that,  I  allow  ;  but 
that  is  not  the  reason.  It  is  simply  because  of 
some  little  physical  peculiarity,  some  excellence 
of  digestion,  or  so  forth,  if  one  may  venture  to 
use  such  a  word  :  not  because  it  is  you — which  I 
should  think  quite  a  natural  and  proper  reason. 
No.  for  I  have  seen  a  creature  as  fair  and  as 
good  almost  as  yon  are,  Margaret  (our  travel- 


lers' names  are  Margaret  and  Aubrey,  you  know 
— that's  understood),  I  have  seen  a  beautiful 
young  girl,  everything  that  was  sweet  and  charm- 
ing, lying  dishevelled,  speechless,  a  prey  to  name- 
less horrors.  Ah  !  that'was  a  bad  one !"  said  the 
young  man,  unable  to  conceal  that  he  himself 
had  become  extremely  pale. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  very  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mar- 
garet, forgetting  the  compliment  in  the  interest 
of  the  story.  "Who  was  she,  Mr.  Aubrey?" 
and  she  turned  her  sympathetic  eyes  full  upon 
him,  which  was  almost  more  than,  in  his  present 
state  of  sensation,  he  could  bear ;  but,  happily, 
Calais  was  within  a  stone's -throw;  and  that  is 
a  circumstance  which  steels  the  suffering  to  en- 
durance. He  got  up,  saying,  "I  think  I  must 
look  after  the  aunts." 

Margaret  looked  after  him  with  a  warm  gusli 
of  sympathy.  Who  was  this  beautiful  young 
girl  who  had  been  so  ill  ?  Was  poor  Aubrey, 
too,  "in  love?"  She  felt  disposed  to  laugh  a 
little,  as  is  natural  in  the  circumstances ;  for 
does  not  every  one  laugh  when  a  love-story  is 
suddenly  produced  ?  But  she  was  deeply  inter- 
ested, and  at  once  felt  a  kindred  sympathy  and 
affectionate  interest  opening  up  in  her  bosom. 
Poor  Aubrey  !  Had  anything  happened,  she 
wondered,  to  the  beautiful  young  girl  who  was 
everything  that  was  sweet  and  charming  ?  Was 
not  that  enough  to  make  everybody  take  an  in- 
terest in  her  at  once  ? 

Margaret  got  no  immediate  satisfaction,  how- 
ever, about  that  beautifid  young  girl,  but  she  of- 
ten thought  of  her;  and  when  she  saw  any  shad- 
ow come  over  Aubrey's  face,  she  immediately  set 
it  down  to  the  credit  of  this  anonymous  young 
lady.  For  the  moment,  however,  she  was  her- 
self carried  away  by  the  excitement  of  being 
"abroad."  But,  alas !  is  not  the  very  first  of 
all  sensations  "abroad "a  bewildering  sense  that 
it  is  just  the  same  world  as  at  home,  and  that 
"foreigners"  are  nothing  else  than  men  and 
women  very  much  like  the  rest  of  us?  For  the 
first  hour  Margaret  was  in  a  kind  of  wonder- 
land. The  new.  unusual  sound  of  the  language, 
the  different  looks  of  the  people,  delighted  her, 
and  she  could  understand  what  they  were  say- 
ing ;  though  both  Jean  and  Grace  declared  it  to 
be  such  bad  French  that  they  never  attempted 
to  understand.  "Is  it  very  bad  French  ?"  she 
whispered  to  Aubrey;  "perhaps  that  is  why  I 
know  what  they  mean."  And  he  gave  her  a 
comical  look  which  made  Margaret  inarticulate 
with  suppressed  laughter.  Thus  the  two  young 
people  became  sworn  allies,  and  understood  each 
other.  But,  after  the  first  hour,  the  old  familiar 
lines  of  the  world  she  had  been  previously  ac- 
quainted with  came  back  to  Margaret.  The 
people,  though  they  were  dressed  differently  and 
spoke  French,  were  the  same  kind  of  men  and 
women  as  she  had  always  known.  Indeed,  the 
old  women  in  their  white  caps  looked  as  if  they 
had  just  come  from  Fife. 

"That  is  just  what  they  were  at  home,"  she 
said  again  to  Aubrey:  "the  old  wives — those 
that  never  mind  the  fashions — even  Bell !"  There 
were  some  of  the  old  women  on  the  French  roads, 
and  at  the  stations,  so  like  Bell  that  the  sight  of 
them  brought  tears  to  Margaret's  eyes. 

"  Who  is  Bell  ?  I  have  so  often  heard  of  Bell. 
Bell  has  been  put  forward  again  and  again,  till 
I  am  afraid  of  her.     I  am  sure  vou  are  afraid 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


141 


of  her ;  and  Aunt  Jean,  too,  though  she  will  not 
say  so." 

"Oh,  not  me!"  cried  Margaret,  uncertain  as 
ever  about  her  pronouns;  "Bell  is — she  is  just 
Bell.  She  was  our  house-keeper;  she  was  ev- 
erything to  me ;  she  brought  me  up.  I  never 
recollect  any  one  else.  Afraid  of  Bell — oh  !  no, 
no.  But  I  would  not  like  Bell  to  know,"  said 
Margaret,  slowly,  "  if  I  did  anything  that  was 
bad — anything  that  was  real  wrong — " 

"  You  never  will,"  said  Aubrey,  "  so  it  doesn't 
matter;  but  I  should  call  that  being  afraid  of 
her.  Now  there  are  some  people  whom  you  only 
go  to  when  you  have  done  something  that  is 
real  wrong." 

"Are  there?  I  don't  know.  It  was  Bell  that 
brought  me  up,  more  than  any  one  else.  She 
is  living  now  near — on  the  way  to  the  Kirkton. 
But  you  will  not  take  any  interest  in  that." 

"I  take  the  greatest  interest,"  said  Aubrey; 
and  it  so  chanced  that  this  conversation,  broken 
off  in  the  railway,  was  renewed  again  when  they 
were  settled  at  Mentone,  where  again  old  women 
were  to  be  found  like  Bell.  They  passed  rapidly 
through  Paris,  and  settled  at  once  in  the  place 
that  was  supposed  to  be  good  for  Margaret.  But 
by  the  time  they  reached  the  sunny  Riviera  Mar- 
garet had  thrown  off  all  trace  of  indisposition, 
and  evidently  wanted  nothing  but  air  and  sun- 
shine, and  a  little  petting,  like  other  flowers. 
They  had  a  little  villa  on  the  edge  of  that  bright- 
est sea;  and  there  along  a  path  bordered  by  a 
hedge  of  aloes,  and  with  a  great  stone-pine  at 
the  end,  its  solemn  dome  of  foliage  and  its  great 
column  of  trunk  relieved  against  the  Mediter- 
ranean blue,  the  two  young  people  took  a  great 
many  walks  together. 

One  of  these  evenings  specially  stamped  itself 
on  their  memories  ;  the  sky  was  flushed  rose-red 
with  the  sunset,  and  all  the  sounds  in  the  air 
were  soft,  as  summer  only  makes  them  in  Eng- 
land :  there  was  a  tinkle  going  on  close  at  hand 
from  a  convent-bell,  and  there  was  a  soft  sound 
of  voices  from  the  beach — voices,  of  which  the 
inflections,  the  accents,  were  all  dramatic,  though 
they  could  not  tell  a  word  that  was  said.  It  was 
the  enchanted  hour,  the  time  of  natural  magic 
and  poetry ;  and  Aubrey,  though  he  was  not  at 
all  poetical,  felt  it  a  little  more  than  he  could 
have  believed  possible.  He  had  found  out  how 
pretty  Margaret  was  —  how  much  prettier,  day 
by  day.  It  was  not  that  there  was  any  striking 
beauty  in  her  that  conquered  with  a  glance;  but 
every  morning  when  she  appeared  down-stairs, 
with  her  color  coming  and  going,  with  her  brown 
eyes  full  of  such  eagerness  and  lovely  wonder, 
"she  grew  upon  you,"  Aubrey  said.  He  had 
thought  her  very  tolerable  even  at  first — no  par- 
ticular drawback  to  her  income  and  her  estate. 
But  by  this  time  he  took  a  great  deal  of  interest 
in  her.  She  was  never  the  same ;  always  chang- 
ing from  serious  to  gay,  from  red  to  white,  from 
quiet  to  eagerness.  He  was  interested,  never 
wearied.  He  had  not  really  found  it  much  of  a 
sacrifice  to  accompany  the  ladies,  after  all.  The 
place  was  a  bore ;  but  then,  fortunately,  Marga- 
ret no  longer  required  to  be  kept  at  this  place ; 
there  was  a  reasonable  hope  of  moving  on  to 
places  in  which  there  was  more  amusement;  and 
Margaret  was  really  amusing,  very  amusing,  as 
girls  go.  There  was  a  variety  abcut  her  which 
kept  your  interest  alive. 


"  Did  you  ever  do  anything  that  was  real 
wrong?"  said  Margaret,  dreamily,  looking  out 
toward  the  horizon  where  the  rose  of  the  sky 
met  the  blue  of  the  sea.  She  was  rather  think- 
ing aloud,  than  realizing  the  scope  of  what  she 
said;  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  girl  ever 
realized  the  difference  between  a  girl  and  a  man 
— tire  very  different  sense  that  real  wrong  might 
have  to  him,  or  the  equivocal  meaning  which 
such  words  might  bear  to  a  listener  of  so  much 
more  experience  in  the  world. 

He  laughed,  startling  Margaret  from  her 
dreamy  musing.  "Alas!"  he  said,  "a  great 
many  times,  I  am  afraid.  Did  you?  But  I 
don't  suppose  you  know  what  wrong  means." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "I 
am  not  in  fun ;  once :  and  it  seems  as  if  you 
never  can  get  better  of  it.  I  don't  know  if  it  is 
any  excuse  that  I  did  it  because  I  did  not  like 
to  hurt  a  person's  feelings." 

"What  was  it?"  he  said,  lightly;  "a  little 
fib — a  statement  that  was  not  quite  justified  by 
fact?  These  are  the  angelical  errors  that  count 
for  wrong  among  creatures  like  you." 

"Then  what  do  you  call  wrong,  if  that  is  not 
wrong?  Aubrey,  it  was  more  wicked  than  that: 
but  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  what  it  was.  I 
have  been  dreadfully  sorry  ever  since  I  did  it. 
But  I  feel  a  little  easier,  a  little  happier  now." 

"Perhaps  you  broke  a  bit  of  old  Dresden?" 
he  said,  "or  lost  that  Venice  point  Aunt  Jean 
showed  me.  I  should  never  forgive  you  for  such 
sins,  Margaret.  No  wonder  you  are  reluctant  to 
confess  them.  You  are  happier  because  nobody 
could  be  unhappy  in  this  delicious  evening,  walk- 
ing as  we  are.  It  is  only  in  such  a  scene  that 
I  could  look  with  complacency  upon  the  heart- 
less destroyer  of  china,  the  careless  guardian  of 
lace — " 

"You  are  only  laughing  at  me," she  said  ;  "I 
think  you  are  always  laughing.  Don't  you  think 
there  is  anything  in  the  world  more  serious  than 
china  and  lace  ?" 

"Very  few  things,  Margaret.  Few  things  so 
dear,  which  you  will  allow  is  very  serious,  and 
few  things  so  easily  injured." 

"But  oh,  Aubrey!  I  think  that  is  almost 
wicked,  to  love  a  thing  that  cannot  love  you 
again,  as  much  as — more  than  things  that  have 
life." 

"I  don't  do  that,  Margaret."  He  looked  at 
her  so  earnestly  that  she  was  almost  abashed, 
yet,  fearing  nothing,  went  on,  moved  by  the 
flowing  of  her  own  newly  awakened  thoughts. 
"You  and  Jean,  you  talk  as  if  a  little  bit  of  a 
cup  or  a  plate — what  we  call  pigs  in  Fife — was 
of  more  importance —  What  are  you  laughing 
at,  Aubrey? — because  I  said  pigs ?  But  it  is  the 
common  word." 

"My  dear  little  Margaret,-'  he  said,  "don't 
make  me  laugh,  with  your  pigs.  Lecture  me. 
Let  us  go  and  sit  under  the  pine  and  look  out 
upon  the  sea,  and  do  you  preach  me  a  little  ser- 
mon about  real  right  and  real  wrong.  I  am  just 
in  the  mood  to  profit  by  it  now." 

"You  are  doing  what  papa  used  to  do,"  said 
Margaret,  half  laughing,  half  crying  ;  "  he  would 
always  make  a  fool  of  me.  And  how  should  I 
lecture  you?  You  must  know  much  better  than 
I  do."  " 

"I  ought,  I  suppose,"  he  said.  The  pine 
stood  on  a  little  point,  one  of  those  innumerablo 


142 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


fairy  headlands  that  line  that  lovely  coast,  the 
sea  lapping  softly,  three  parts  round,  the  foot  of 
the  cliff  on  which  it  holds  its  place.  The  air  was 
more  fresh  there  than  anywhere  else.  The  pine 
held  high  its  clump  of  big  branches  and  sharp 
evergreen  needles  high  over  their  heads  :  behind 
them  was  a  bosquet  of  shrubs  which  almost  hid 
them  as  they  sat  together.  The  blue  sea  thus 
softly  whispering  below  upon  the  beach,  the  del- 
icate rose  that  tinted  the  sky,  the  great  pine 
isolated  and  splendid,  how  could  they  recall 
to  Margaret  the  dark  wood,  all  worn  with  the 
winds,  the  mossy  knoll,  the  big  elbows  of  the 
silver  fir,  the  moan  of  the  Northern  sea  with 
which  she  had  been  so  familiar  ?  The  one  scene, 
though  made  up  of  almost  the  same  details,  bore 
no  more  resemblance  to  the  other  than  Aubrey 
Bellingham  did  to  Rob  Glen :  and  where  could 
a  greater  difference  be  ? 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "so  far  as  wrong  is  con- 
cerned, I  should  suppose  so.  I  must  be  better 
up  in  that  than  you  are ;  but,  all  the  same,  I 
should  like  you  to  teach  me.  Let  it  be  about 
the  right;  there  you  are  strong.  What  must  I 
do  to  cease  to  be  a  useless  dilettante — as  you  say 
I  am  ?" 

"Me?  I  never  said  so,  Aubrey — not  such  a 
word.     I  never  said  such  a  word." 

"But  you  meant  it.  Tell  me,  Margaret:  if 
I  can  cease  to  be  a  dilettante  and  a  trifling  per- 
son, what  would  you  have  me  be?" 

He  bent  toward  her,  looking  into  her  eyes, 
and  half  put  out  his  hand  to  take  hers ;  and 
Margaret,  startled,  saw  once  more  what  it  had 
so  much  bewildered  her  to  see  in  Mr.  St.  John, 
the  same  look  which  she  knew  in  the  eyes  of 
Rob  Glen.  What  an  amount  of  experience  she 
was  acquiring,  ever  renewed  and  extended ! 
This  frightened  her  greatly.  She  drew  away 
from  him  upon  the  garden-seat,  and  kept  her 
hands  clasped  firmly  together,  and  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  other  hand. 

"  I  do  not  want  you  to  be  anything,"  she  said, 
"you  are  very  well  as  you  are.  You  might 
think  upon — perhaps  you  might  think  upon — 
the  common  folk  a  little  more.  When  you  came 
to  EaiTs-hall  we  did  not  know  what  you  meant; 
and  sometimes  even  now  Jean  and  you —  I 
know  most  about  the  common  folk,  they  are  just 
as  interesting  as  the  others." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  laughing,  but  a  little  discom- 
fited, "you  mean  the  poor.  Must  I  take  to  vis- 
iting the  poor?" 

"  I  suppose  you  call  them  the  poor,  in 
England,"  said  Margaret,  doubtfully,  "but  you 
know  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do,  Aubrey ; 
for  one  thing,  you  are  older.  I  think  perhaps 
Jean  will  think  I  ought  to  go  in  now." 

"Certainly,  I  am  a  great  deal  older;  but  not 
so  very  much,  either.  I  am  twenty-five — just 
about  the  right  age  to  go  with  eighteen.  Yes, 
tell  me  a  little  more.  I  shall  recollect  about — 
what  do  you  call  them  ?  the  common  people — 
not  the  poor.  (Jo  on,  my  moralist;  I  am  ready 
to  be  taught." 

"I  think  I  hear  Grace  calling,"  she  said,  rising 
to  her  feet.  "I  am  sure  Jean  will  think  the 
wind  is  getting  cold,  and  that  I  should  have  gone 
in  before." 

"  The  wind  is  as  soft  as  summer,"  he  said, 
with  a  little  excitement,  "and  the  evening  as 
sweet  as — yourself.     Wait  a  little,  only  a  few 


minutes ;  there  is  something  I  wish  so  much  to 
say  to  you." 

"Oil,  Mr.  Aubrey ! "  she  said,  frightened.  "  Do 
not  say  it !  I  would  rather  you  did  not  say  it. 
Once  I  did  very  wrong,  not  wishing  to  hurt  a 
person's  feelings ;  but  that  is  what  I  must  never 
do  any  more." 

"Are  you  sure,"  he  said,  rising  too,  with  a 
sudden  flush  of  anger,  "that  you  know  what  I 
was  going  to  say?" 

Margaret  .paused,  with  an  alarmed  look  at 
him,  the  color  wavering  in  her  cheeks,  her  eyes 
very  anxious,  her  lips  a  little  apart. 

"What  I  was  going  to  say,"  he  continued, 
pointedly,  "was,  that  I  fear  I  must  soon  leave 
the  villa,  and  the  fine  weather,  and  your  delight- 
ful society.  This  kind  of  holiday  life  cannot  en- 
dure forever-" 

"Oh!"  She  uttered  her  favorite  exclamation 
with  a  look  of  distress  and,  he  thought,  disap- 
pointment.    This  was  balm  to  Aubrey's  heart. 

"  Yes,  I  am  sorry,  too.  But  what  can  be  done 
when  duty  calls  ?  My  office  is  getting  clamorous, 
and  there  is  nothing  tor  a  man  to  do  here.  Now, 
perhaps,  we  had  better  carry  out  your  intention, 
and  go  back  to  Aunt  Jean." 

And  they  walked  through  the  garden  back  to 
the  house,  with  scarcely  a  word  spoken  between 
them.  One  way  or  the  other  way,  both  were 
equally  uncomfortable  modes  of  managing  such 
a  crisis.  She  had  hurt  his  feelings !  It  was 
better  than  all  that  followed  the  episode  of  Rob 
Glen  ;  but  still  it  was  not  a  pleasant  way. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

And  it  was  true  that  the  very  next  morning 
Aubrey  declared  his  intention  of  going  away. 
"My  chief  finds  that  the  office  cannot  get  on 
without  me,"  he  said,  pretending  to  have  had 
letters  by  the  morning  mail ;  while  Margaret  sat, 
not  daring  to  look  up,  feeling  more  guilty  than 
she  could  say.  Her  consciousness  that  she  was 
to  blame  even  carried  the  day  over  her  deter- 
mined belief  in  the  sincerity  and  absolute  truth- 
fulness of  every  one  about  her.  Twenty -four 
hours  since  she  would  have  accepted  Aubrey's 
statement  as  a  matter-of-fact  which  left  no  room 
for  doubt  or  comment.  But  now  she  could  not 
but  feel  that  she  had  something  to  do  with  it, 
that  she  had  hurt  his  feelings,  which  made  Mar- 
garet feel  very  guilty  and  wretched.  He  had 
been  so  kind  to  them,  to  her  and  her  sisters,  and 
sacrificed  a  great  many  pleasant  things  to  come 
with  them  :  and  this  was  all  her  gratitude!  She 
did  not  like  to  lift  her  eyes.  When  Jean  and 
Grace  both  rushed  into  wailing  and  lamenta- 
tions, she  said  nothing.  She  tried  to  swallow 
her  tea,  though  it  nearly  choked  her,  but  she 
could  not  speak. 

As  for  Mrs.  Bellingham,  she  said  not  half  so 
much  to  her  nephew  then  as  she  did  after  break- 
fast, when  she  had  him  to  herself. 

"You  can't  be  going  to  do  anything  so  fool- 
ish, Aubrey,  my  dear  Aubrey !"  she  said  ;  "  why, 
you  are  making  progress  day  by  day !  If  ever  a 
girl  was  delighted  with  a  young  man,  and  pleased 
to  be  with  him,  and  happy  in  his  society,  Marga- 
ret is  that  girl.     And  you  know  how  anxious  I 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


143 


am,  and  how  it  would  please  everybody  at  the 
Court  to  see  you  provided  for." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Aunt  Jean,"  he  said, 
with  a  flush  of  angry  color.  "I  know  you  mean 
nothing  that  is  not  amiable  and  kind ;  but  I 
think,  all  the  same,  I  might  be  provided  for  in 
some  other  way." 

Jean,  though  she  was  so  strong-minded,  felt 
very  much  disposed  to  cry  at  this  failure  of  all 
her  wishes. 

"I don't  understand  you  at  all," she  said;  "I 
am  sure  there  was  nothing  meant  that  was  the 
least  disagreeable  to  your  feelings.  Margaret, 
though  I  say  it  that  perhaps  shouldn't,  is  as  nice 
a  girl  as  you  will  find  anywhere ;  and  though 
her  education  has  been  neglected,  nobody  need 
be  ashamed  of  her.  And  you  seemed  to  be 
quite  pleased;  and  I  am  sure  she  is  really  fond 
of  you." 

"Yes,  that  is  one  of  your  Scotticisms,"  he 
said;  "you  mean  that  as  long  as  I  am  service- 
able, and  don't  ask  too  much,  Margaret  likes  me 
well  enough.    I  don't  say  anything  against  that — " 

This  time  Mrs.  Bellingham  really  did  put  up 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "I  never  ex- 
pected to  hear  of  my  Scotticisms  from  you,  Au- 
brey," she  said.  "Of  course  I  am  Scotch — 
there  is  no  doubt  about  it — and  I  would  never 
be  one  to  deny  my  country.  But  I  did  think 
that,  after  spending  by  far  the  greater  part  of 
my  life  in  England,  I  might  have  been  free  of 
any  such  abuse  as  that." 

"My  dear  Aunt  Jean,  do  you  think  I  meant 
abuse?  I  mean  that  Margaret  likes  me  well 
enough  as  a  friend — which  you  call  being  fond 
of  me.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  would  herself 
say,  with  all  the  innocence  in  the  world,  that 
she  was  fond  of  me,  knowing  perfectly  what  she 
means;  but  then  I  should  put  a  different  mean- 
ing on  such  words.  She  will  never  be  fond  of 
me  in  my  sense ;  and  so,  as  I  have  still  a  little 
pride  left  (though  you  might  not  think  so),  it  is 
clear  that  I  cannot  be  provided  for,  as  you  say, 
in  that  way." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Aubrey  ?  Has 
anything  happened  between  Margaret  and  you. 
Have  you  said  anything,  or  has  she  said  any- 
thing?" 

Aubrey  saw  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  had  al- 
most committed  himself;  and  he  did  not  want 
any  one  to  think  that  a  mere  ingenue,  a  bread- 
and-butter  girl  like  Margaret,  had  repulsed  or 
discouraged  so  accomplished  a  gentleman  as 
himself.  He  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  My  dear 
aunt,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  That  has  not 
been  at  all  necessary.  Margaret  and  I  are  the 
best  friends  in  the  world.  I  am  '  very  fond  of 
her,'  as  you  say.  She  is  a  charming  little  girl. 
But  your  scheme  will  not  do  ;  that  is  all.  Was 
not  I  quite  willing  to  be  provided  for?  But  it 
will  never  come  to  anything.  Oh  yes,  I  sup- 
pose the  chief  might  be  smoothed  down  ;  there 
is  nothing  so  very  important  going  on  at  the  of- 
fice :  but  what  is  the  good  of  it  ?  Margaret  and 
I  will  stroll  up  and  down  the  beach,  and  listen 
to  the  band,  and  all  that,  and  be  very  fond  of 
each  other ;  but  we  will  never  get  a  step  farther 
than  we  are  now." 

"  I  know  what  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham — 

"you  are  bored;  that  is  the  whole  business; 

and  I  don't  wonder.     To  see  all  the  poor  things 

about,  with  their  sick  faces,  is  enough  to  make 

10 


anybody  ill.  And  Margaret,  the  little  monkey, 
after  giving  us  such  a  fright,  is  just  as  well  as  I 
am.  Some  one  was  speaking  to  me  the  other 
day  about  the  villa.  I  dare  say  we  could  get  it 
off  our  hands  quite  easily;  and  in  that  case,  if 
we  go  on  to  some  place  which  is  more  amusing, 
will  you  change  your  mind — or,  let  us  say,  re- 
consider your  decision  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  then  he  remembered  his  interests  like 
a  young  man  of  sense.  "  Well,  perhaps  I  will 
reconsider  my  decision,"  he  said. 

After  this  the  party  went  on  into  Italy,  and 
saw  a  great  many  things  that  filled  Margaret 
with  delight  and  wonder.  She  expanded  like  a 
flower,  as  the  spring  came  on — that  Italian  spring 
which  is  as  youth  to  whosoever  can  receive  it  with 
an  unburdened  soul.  And  to  Margaret,  who  al- 
ready possessed  youth,  it  was  not  only  delight, 
but  mental  growth  and  expansion  of  the  whole 
being.  Aubrey  left  them  for  a  time,  but  return- 
ed again  to  escort  them  home  in  that  month  of 
May  which  is  the  climax  of  all  the  splendors  of 
spring.  The  interval  between  his  going  and  his 
coming  back  did  a  great  deal  more  for  Aubrey 
than  any  attentions  of  his  could  have  done. 
They  were  in  Florence  when  he  left  them,  where 
Mrs.  Bellingham  and  Miss  Leslie  had  already 
found  a  number  of  acquaintances,  and  where 
soon  they  were  deep  in  afternoon  teas  and  social 
evenings,  as  if  they  had  been  at  home. 

Margaret  had  no  education  which  fitted  her 
for  the  delights  of  this  life,  and  she  could  not 
run  about  alone  in  the  solemn  Italian  city  as  she 
had  done  at  home ;  and  she  missed  her  compan- 
ion, who,  though  he  was  not  clever  nor  particu- 
larly well-informed,  understood  how  to  set  afloat 
those  half- thoughtful,  half- bantering  conversa- 
tions which  youth  loves,  and  in  which  young 
talkers  can  soar  to  heights  of  wise  or  foolish 
speculation,  or  drop  into  nonsense,  at  their  pleas- 
ure :  an  art  in  which,  it  is  needless  to  say,  nei- 
ther Mrs.  Jean  nor  Miss  Grace  was  skilled ;  and 
now  and  then  he  had  an  acces  of  enthusiasm 
equally  beyond  the  range  of  the  ladies,  who  walk- 
ed about,  guide-book  in  hand,  and  insisted  that 
nothing  should  be  omitted.  "Margaret,  Mar- 
garet! you  are  running  away  without  seeing 
half  of  the  pictures.  I  am  only  at  No.  310," 
Mrs.  Bellingham  would  say.  But  when  Aubrey- 
was  there,  the  girl  was  emancipated,  and  allowed 
to  gaze  her  soul  away  upon  what  she  liked  and 
what  he  liked.  How  she  missed  him  !  She  was 
quite  ready,  as  he  said,  to  declare  with  fervor 
that  she  was  "very  fond"  of  Aubrey,  and  wel- 
comed him  when  he  came  back  with  genuine 
pleasure.  "Oh,  how  glad  I  am  you  are  to  be 
with  us  now  till  we  get  home  !"  she  said. 

Aubrey  looked  at  her  with  a 'glance  which  was 
half  angry  and  half  affectionate.  "You  are  a 
little  deceiver,"  he  said  ;  "you  like  me  to  be  with 
you  only  so  long  as  I  am  useful.  I  am  a  kind 
of  courier;  that  is  all  the  good  of  me." 

"Oh  no,"  cried  Margaret,  "I  cannot  tell  yon 
how  much  I  missed  you.  It  is  because  you  are 
so  kind." 

"It  is  because  of  me,  not  because  of  you,"  he 
said,  with  a  frown  and  a  laugh;  "and  so  it  al- 
ways will  be,  women  are  so  " — he  was  going  to 
say  selfish ;  but  when  he  caught  Margaret's  eyes 
puckered  with  emotion  and  wistfulness,  looking 
anxiously  at  him,  he  stopped  short  and  changed 


1« 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


the  word — "ridiculous,"  lie  added,  not  knowing 
what  she  meant,  and  feeling  a  little,  just  a  very 
little,  prick  in  his  heart  that  it  was  so,  and  that 
Margaret  only  found  him  agreeable  for  his  good 
qualities,  and  not  from  any  inclination  toward 
him  within  her  own  being.  Her  eager  reception 
of  him,  however,  woke  a  sentiment  in  him  which 
was  not  unlike  love ;  he  was  pleased  by  the 
brightness  of  her  welcome:  and  to  be  unable  to 
make  a  girl  fall  in  love  with  you,  a  simple  girl 
of  eighteen  who  has  never  seen  anybody,  after 
months  of  companionship — a  girl,  too,  whom  to 
marry  would  be  to  provide  for  yourself  for  life — 
this,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  is  humbling  to  a  man 
of  accomplishment  and  experience.  So  Aubrey 
made  up  his  mind  to  another  effort,  with  more 
determination,  if  with  less  lively  hope.  He  would 
not  quarrel  with  her  if  in  the  long-run  she  still 
refused  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  but  he  began  to 
hope  that  a  different  result  might  be  attained. 
He  liked  Margaret,  and  Margaret  liked  him, 
without  any  disguise ;  and,  after  all,  there  was 
no  telling :  perhaps  perseverance  on  his  part, 
and  the  habit  of  referring  to  him  perpetually, 
and  getting  a  great  deal  of  her  pleasure  through 
him,  might  bring  about  a  satisfactory  state  of 
things  at  the  last. 

They  reached  London  in  the  beginning  of  June, 
when  everything  looked  at  its  brightest.  What 
a  change  Margaret  felt  in  herself!  She  was  no 
longer  the  little  girl  who  had  been  allowed  to 
grow  up  in  all  the  simplicity  of  a  country  maid- 
en, untaught  and  unsophisticated,  at  Earl's-hall. 
She  had  seen  a  great  many  things  and  places, 
though  that  mere  fact  does  not  make  very  much 
difference.  She  had  learned  to  think;  and  there 
had  grown  about  her  that  little  subtle  atmosphere 
of  personal  experience  which  can  rarely  be  ac 
quired  in  the  little  world  of  home.  It  was  not  pos- 
sible for  her  to  identify  herself  with  her  old  sisters 
as  she  might  have  done  with  her  mother.  From 
the  first  they  had  been  separate  existences,  de- 
tached from  her,  though  in  close  incidental  con- 
junction, and  so  kind  to  her.  She  was  grateful 
to  them,  and  loved  them  as  she  could,  but  she 
was  very  conscious  of  the  isolations  of  her  exist- 
ence ;  and  how  could  she  help  the  little  criticisms, 
the  little  laughters,  the  amusement  which  their 
"ways"  could  afford  only  to  one  whose  life  was 
not  involved  in  theirs,  and  whose  duty  to  them 
was  less  than  the  most  sacred  ?  Such  detached- 
ness  has  much  to  do  with  the  energy  of  personal 
existence.  Margaret  had  begun  to  feel  herself, 
and  to  know  what  her  life  was,  during  the  hours 
of  solitude  that  were  inevitable;  and  through  the 
long  period  of  partial  companionship  in  which  she 
went  and  came,  docile  and  quiet  in  the  train  of 
Jean  and  Grace,  without  feeling  herself  ever  iden- 
tified with  them,  her  own  being  was  slowly  de- 
veloping within  her.  She  had  begun  to  see  what 
the  position  was  that  she  was  born  to  occupy, 
and  to  foresee  dimly  duties  which  she  had  no  nat- 
ural guide  to  instruct  her  in,  no  natural  represent- 
ative to  do  for  her,  but  which  would  have  to  be 
done  otherwise  than  as  Jean  and  Grace  would  bid. 

These  grave  foreshadowings  of  the  future  came, 
however,  but  by  glimpses  upon  Margaret.  She 
had  no  desire  to  think  of  the  future :  over  it  there 
was  a  shadow  which  she  did  not  know  how  to 
meet.  She  held  it  as  much  as  she  could  at  arm's- 
length,  still  with  a  dumb  faith  in  circumstances, 
in  something  which  might  still  happen  to  deliver 


her.  So  entirely  had  she  succeeded  in  this,  that 
the  alarming  image  of  Rob  Glen,  which  every 
time  she  thought  of  him  had  more  and  more  ter- 
rors for  her,  had  not  even  troubled  her  in  any  vi- 
sion for  M'eeks  before  the  party  recrossed  the 
Channel  on  their  way  home.  But  on  that  pas- 
sage, as  they  came  back,  Margaret  suddenly  re- 
membered the  thought  that  had  occurred  to  her 
there  as  she  went  away.  It  was  a  breezy  day, 
and  the  sea  was  not  smooth :  Jean  and  Grace 
lay  on  sofas  in  the  deck  cabin,  indifferent  to  Mar- 
garet, and  everything  else  in  earth  and  heaven. 
Aubrey,  not  much  more  strong  in  this  particular, 
had  taken  himself  and  his  miseries  out  of  the 
way.  Margaret,  in  happy  exemption,  sat  alone. 
But  this  was  not  a  happy  exemption,  as  it  hap- 
pened ;  for  suddenl}'  there  leaped  into  her  mind 
a  recollection  of  the  question  she  had  asked  her- 
self first,  in  this  very  steamboat,  on  this  very 
ocean,  five  months  ago — Would  it  not  have  been 
better  to  disregard  Rob  Glen's  feelings  and  tell 
him  the  truth  ?  "  Yes,"  she  said  now  to  herself, 
firmly,  though  with  pale  lips,  and  a  shadow  im- 
mediately fell  over  the  brightness :  the  time  was 
coming  when  her  fortitude  would  be  put  to  the 
test,  when  she  must  meet  him  and  decide  what 
was  to  be  the  course  of  her  life — and  every  tick 
of  her  watch,  every  throb  of  her  pulse,  every 
bound  of  the  boat,  was  bringing  her  nearer — 
nearer  to  this  terrible  moment,  and  to  Rob  Glen. 

They  stopped  in  London  for  a  few  days  to  "  do 
some  shopping"  —  perennial  necessity  which 
haunts  every  mortal  —  and  "to  see  the  exhibi- 
tions." This  was  a  thing  which  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham  considered  absolutely  necessary.  She  had 
not  failed  to  go  through  the  Royal  Academy, 
with  her  catalogue  in  her  hand,  marking  the 
pictures  she  liked,  once  in  the  last  twenty  years. 
Nobody  in  society  could  avoid  doing  this. 
Whether  you  cared  for  them  or  not,  it  was  indis- 
pensable that  you  should  see  them — they  are  al- 
ways a  topic  of  conversation  afterward ;  and 
Mrs.  Bellingham  had  seen  a  dull  party  redeemed,, 
quite  redeemed,  by  a  little  knowledge  of  the  ex- 
hibitions. 

"Oh  yes,  dearest  Margaret,  we  must  stay; 
dear  Jean  never  misses  the  pictures,  and  you  and 
dear  Aubrey  must  see  them.  Dearest  Jean  says 
that  all  young  people  should  see  them  ;  certainly 
they  are  very  beautiful  and  humanizing,  and  will 
do  us  all  a  great  deal  of  good.  We  are  to  start 
as  soon  as  we  have  had  our  luncheon.  I  should 
have  liked  to  go  in  the  morning,  but  dear  Jean 
likes  to  see  the  people  as  well  as  the  pictures ; 
and,  darling  Margaret,  you  that  have  never  seen 
anything,  that  will  be  so  good  for  you  too." 

"Not  your  hat,  Margaret,  your  bonnet!"  said 
Mrs.  Bellingham ;  "  we  are  in  town  :  it  is  not 
like  Florence  or  Paris,  or  any  of  those  foreign 
places  where  we  were  visitors.  Here  you  must 
understand  that  we  are  in  town.  Next  year  we 
will  come  up  for  the  season,  when  we  are  out  of 
mourning  (or  almost  out  of  mourning),  and  you 
must  be  presented  and  all  that ;  but  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  in  crape;  it  would  be  alto- 
gether out  of  the  question,  and  a  disrespect  to 
papa.  But,  such  as  it  is,  put  on  your  bonnet, 
my  dear  Margaret.  We  shall  see  nobody — but 
we  may  see  a  good  many  people;  and  you  must 
never  forget  that  you  are  in  town  now." 

The  bonnet  was  put  on  accordingly,  and  the 
ladies  went  to  the  Academv,  with  Aubrey  in  at- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


li: 


tendance  as  usual.  Perhaps  he  did  not  like  it 
so  well  as  in  foreign  places,  for  they  were  a  lit- 
tle travel-worn,  and  their  crape  not  so  fresh  as 
it  ought  to  be ;  but  still  the  faithful  Aubrey  was 
faithful,  and  went.  He  knew  that  if  anybody 
saw  him  (and  of  course  somebody  would  see  him), 
it  would  be  supposed  that  he  had  expectations 
from  the  old  aunt  in  her  imperfect  crape  ;  or  the 
truth  would  creep  out  about  Margaret,  and  he 
would  be  forgiven  everything  when  it  was  known 
that  it  was  an  heiress  upon  whom  he  was  in  at- 
tendance. Such  facts  as  these  change  the  ex- 
ternal aspect  of  affairs. 

It  was  a  bright  day,  warm  and  cheerful,  and 
the  Academy,  of  course,  was  crowded.  Aubrey 
did  not  consider  that  it  was  his  duty  to  follow 
Mrs.  Bellingham  while  she  made  her  conscien- 
tious round  ;  but  he  kept  close  by  Margaret,  who 
was  half  frightened  by  the  jostling  and  crowd, 
and  could  not  see  anything,  and  had  a  vague 
sense  of  dread  she  could  not  tell  why.  "I  am 
afraid  you  have  a  headache,"  Aubrey  said  ;  but 
Margaret  did  not  feel  that  it  would  be  honest  to 
take  refuge  in  that  common  safeguard  of  a  head- 
ache. It  was  something  more  like  a  heartache 
that  she  had,  though  she  could  not  tell  why. 
She  was  standing  looking  round  her  vaguely 
enough,  tired  and  waiting  for  a  seat,  in  the  great 
room,  in  a  corner  not  so  crowded  as  the  rest, 
and  Aubrey  was  coming  up  hurriedly  to  tell  her 
of  a  sudden  vacancy  on  one  of  the  benches,  when 
he  was  arrested  by  the  sudden  change  in  her 
countenance.  Her  eyes,  which  had  been  wan- 
dering vaguely  over  a  prospect  which  afforded 
her  but  little  interest,  suddenly  cleared  and  kin- 
dled ;  her  face,  which  had  been  so  pale,  was  sud- 
denly lighted  by  one  of  those  flushes  of  color 
which  changed  Margaret's  aspect  so  completely  ; 
her  lips,  which  had  been  so  serious,  parted  with 
the  brightest  of  smiles.  She  made  a  step  for- 
ward, all  lighted  up  with  pleasure,  and  held  out 
her  hand.  Aubrey  stopped  suddenly  short  in 
his  advance,  and  looked  suspiciously,  keenly  at 
the  new-comer  who  produced  this  change  on  her. 
He  was  not  a  man  who  was  addicted  even  to  the 
most  innocent  of  oaths ;  but  this  time  his  feel- 
ings were  too  much  for  him.  "By  Jove!  the 
man  of  Killin,"  he  said ;  and  he  was  so  much 
startled  that  the  words  were  uttered  half  aloud. 

"Bandal!"  Margaret  said,  all  smiling,  hold- 
ing out  her  hand.  "Oh!  I  did  not  think  I 
should  see  .any  one  I  knew — much  less  you. 
How  little  one  can  tell!  I  had  been  wanting  to 
go  away." 

The  simplicity  of  pleasure  with  which  she  said 
this  took  Bandal  by  surprise.  He  clasped  her 
hand  and  held  it  in  his  own  for  a  moment  with 
a  corresponding  self-betrayal.  "It  seemed  too 
good  to  be  true,"  he  said;  and  they  stood  to- 
gether for  a  moment  so  completely  absorbed  in 
this  sudden  delight  of  seeing  each  other,  that  Au- 
brey gave  way  to  another  vulgarism  quite  un- 
like his  good-breeding :  he  made  as  though  he 
would  have  whistled  that  long  note  of  wonder 
and  discovery  which  is  one  of  the  primeval  signs 
invented  before  language.  "When  did  this 
come  about?"  Aubrey  said  to  himself;  and  his 
surprise  was  so  genuine  that  he  could  do  nothing 
but  stand  half  petrified,  and  watch  the  course  of 
this  singular  interview  going  on  in  all  simplicity 
before  his  eyes. 

"Jean  and  Grace  are  both  here,"  said  Mar- 


garet, "and  Aubrey  —  Aubrey,  whom  you  saw 
with  us  last  summer.  Oh,  Bandal,  have  you 
just  come  from  home  ?  Are  they  all  quite  well  ? 
Is  it  long  since  you  saw  Bell  ?  Is  EaiTs-hall 
very  dreary,  standing  empty  ?  Oh  !  I  would  like 
to  hear  about  everything.  Will  you  come  and 
see  us?  But  tell  me,  now,  are  you  staying  in 
London,  and  what  was  it  that  brought  you  here, 
just  this  very  afternoon,  when  I  was  coming 
too  ?" 

"My  good  angel,  I  think,"  said  Bandal,  fer- 
vently ;  and  again  the  color  rushed  over  her  face, 
and  she  smiled — as  Aubrey  thought  he  had  nev- 
er seen  her  smile  before. 

"Let  us  say  a  kind  fairy,"  said  Margaret; 
"  but  will  you  come  and  see  us  where  we  are 
living?  For  here  there  is  no  quiet  place  to  talk. 
Uon*t  go  away  though,  Bandal :  Jean  and  Grace 
would  like  to  see  you — and  I  too." 

"Is  it  likely  that  I  should  want  to  go  away?" 
he  said ;  and  then  his  face  paled  a  little,  and"  he 
added:  "There  is  some  one  else  you  want  to 
ask  me  about,  Margaret.  You  will  not  need  to 
trust  to  me  for  information  at  second-hand.'' 
Then  he  lowered  his  voice,  and  said,  bending  to- 
ward her,  "  Glen  is  here." 

"Oh!"  Aubrey  could  see  the  usual  little 
exclamation  prolonged  almost  into  a  cry.  She 
grew  quite  pale  with  a  dead  pallor  of  fright. 
"  Oh,  Bandal,  take  him  away  ;  or  take  me  away. 
What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  cried. 

"Do  you  not  wish  to  see  him,  Margaret?" 

"  Oh  no,  no,  Bandal !  Turn  round;  pretend 
to  be  looking  at  the  pictures.  What  shall  I  do  ? 
Oh,  do  not  let  him  know  I  am  here!  It  was 
that  made  me  ill  before.  It  was — all  a  mistake, 
Bandal.  Oh,  I  felt  sure  when  I  came  out  to- 
day something  was  going  to  happen ;  and  then 
when  I  saw  you  I  thought  how  silly  I  had  been 
— that  it  was  something  good  that  had  hs}> 
pened  :  now  here  is  the  right  reading  of  it.  Oh, 
Bandal,  you  helped  me  before ;  can  you  not  help 
me  again  now?" 

"I  will  do  anything,  whatever  you  wish,"  he 
said  ;  "but,  Margaret,  if  this  is  your  feeling,  it 
is  scarcely  fair  to  Glen  ;  I  think  he  ought  to 
know." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  but  in  too  great  a  panic 
to  know  what  she  was  saying;  "which  will  be 
the  best?  Should  I  stay  here  while  you  take 
him  away,  Bandal?  I  could  stand  close  to  the 
pictures  and  put  down  my  veil ;  or  will  you  take 
me  away  ?  Oh,  think,  please,  for  I  do  not  seem 
able  to  think!  But  he  would  be  sure  to  know 
me  if  he  saw  me  with  you.  Aubrey — oh,  here 
is  Aubrey,"  she  said,  seizing  his  arm  as  he  ap- 
proached ;  "  he  will  take  me  :  and,  Bandal,  come 
— will  you  come  to-night?" 

"Where  ?"  said  Bandal,  putting  out  his  hand 
to  detain  her.  Aubrey,  with  a  somewhat  surly 
nod  of  recognition  which  the  other  was  scarcely 
aware  of,  gave  him  the  address ;  and  almost 
dragged  through  the  crowd  by  Margaret's  eager- 
ness, went  away  with  her,  not  ill-pleased,  not- 
withstanding this  disagreeable  evidence  of  some 
mystery  he  did  not  understand,  to  carry  her  off 
from  the  man  she  had  smiled  upon  so  brightly. 
She  had  dropped  her  veil,  which  was  half  crape, 
over  her  face,  and,  holding  her  head  d.own  and 
clinging  to  his  arm,  drew  him  through  the  crowd. 

"Are  you  ill?"  he  said;  "what  is  the  mat- 
ter, Margaret  ?"     But  she  made  no  reply  ;  and 


1-4G 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


it  was  only  when  he  had  found  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham's  hired  carriage,  which  was  waiting  outside, 
and  put  her  into  it,  that  she  seemed  to  be  able 
to  speak.     Even  then  she  would  not  let  him  go. 

"Will  you  come  home  with  me?"  she  said, 
with  a  sweetness  of  appeal  and  a  wistful  look 
which  Aubrey,  with  some  indignation,  felt  to  be 
false,  after  the  reception  she  had  given  to  "  that 
Scotch  fellow,"  yet  could  not  resist. 

"I  am  afraid  you  must  be  ill,"  he  said,  half 
sullenly — "yes,  if  you  wish  it,  I  will  go  with 
you ;  but  Aunt  Jean,  I  am  afraid,  will  think  this 
very  strange." 

"There  was  some  one  that  I  did  not  want  to 
see.  Ah!"  she  cried,  putting  up  her  hands  to 
her  face  and  sinking  back  into  a  corner  of  the 
carriage.  Aubrey,  looking  out  where  her  terri- 
fied glance  had  fallen,  saw  a  man  turn  round  and 
stare  after  them  as  they  drove  away ;  but  he 
could  not  see  who  or  what  kind  of  man  this  was. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

When  Rob  Glen  accepted  the  offer  that  Ran- 
dal made  him  and  agreed  to  the  conditions,  it 
was  done  partly  in  despite,  partly  in  impatience, 
partly  because'  the  novelty  tempted  him,  in  the 
state  of  discouragement  and  irritation  which 
Margaret's  troubled  response  had  thrown  him 
into.  He  had  not  ceased  to  be  "in  love"  with 
her,  nor  was  the  impassioned  letter  he  had  ad- 
dressed to  her  really  false,  notwithstanding  his 
constant  confidential  interviews  with  Jeanie, 
which  would  have  been  the  direst  offence  to 
Margaret  had  they  been  known,  or  had  she  real- 
ly cared  for  him  as  he  supposed  and  hoped  her 
to  do.  Had  she  been  within  reach,  Rob  would 
have  been  really  as  much  in  love  with  Margaret 
as  ever ;  but  he  was  angry  and  hurt  by  her  in- 
difference, and  humiliated,  he  who  had  won  so 
much  love  in  his  day,  that  she  did  not  receive 
his  letter  with  pleasure.  Even  if  she  had  seen 
the  inexpediency  or  impossibility  of  continuing 
the  correspondence,  he  could  not  forgive  her  that 
she  had  no  word  of  thanks  to  send  him  for  the 
letter,  which  might  have  made  a  girl  happy,  no 
breathing  of  soft  response  to  its  impassioned 
strain.  He  was  pleased  to  punish  her,  to  re- 
venge himself  by  the  hasty  pledge  not  to  write 
again.  Yes,  he  would  punish  her.  Next  time 
she  received  one  of  these  letters  it  should  be 
after  months  of  weary  waiting,  when  she  would 
thank  him  as  she  ought. 

It  was  absolutely  impossible  for  Rob  to  real- 
ize that  it  would  be  a  relief  to  Margaret  not  to 
hear  from  him  at  all.  The  idea  was  incredible. 
Never  before  in  all  his  experience  had  he  met 
with  a  girl  who  was  quite  insensible  to  his  woo- 
ing, and  Margaret,  who  was  so  young,  so  art- 
less! She  might  be  afraid  to  snatch  that  pain- 
fid  joy ;  the  perils  of  a  clandestine  correspond- 
ence might  alarm  instead  of  exciting  her;  but 
that  she  should  not  like  it,  was  beyond  all  Rob's 
acquaintance  with  human  nature,  and  altogether 
incredible  to  him.  And  thus  he  would  punish 
her.  Edinburgh  too  would  no  doubt  be  more 
cheerful  than  the  farm  in  the  depth  of  winter, 
when  his  mother's  ill-humor  and  the  absence  of 
all  amusement  would  aggravate  the  short  days 
and  long,  cold  nights,  in  which  even  a  stroll  with 


Jeanie  was  no  longer  practicable.  Mrs.  Glen, 
too,  looked  favorably  on  the  idea.  It  would 
"  pass  the  time."  "And  you'll  be  in  the  wav  of 
seeing  a  good  kind  of  folk,"  his  mother  said; 
"plenty  of  gentry  is  aye  about  thae  lawyers' 
offices.  They're  in  want  o'  siller,  or  they're 
wanting  to  get  rid  o'  their  siller  ;  and  I  wouldna 
lose  a  chance  of  a  good  acquaintance.  Then, 
when  the  time  comes,  and  when  you  set  up  in 
your  ain  house  with  your  lady-wife,  you'll  no  be 
without  friends." 

"Friends  made  in  an  Edinbnrgh  writer's  of- 
fice, of  what  use  will  they  be  in  the  heart  of 
England  ?"  said  Rob,  with  lofty  superiority ;  but 
he  was  not  displeased  by  the  suggestion.  He 
no  more  thought  it  possible  that,  with  his  tal- 
ents, he  could  fail  to  "win  forward,"  as  his 
mother  said,  than  he  thought  it  possible  that 
Margaret  could  really  be  indifferent  to  such  a 
glowing  composition  as  the  love-letter  he  had 
sent  her.  The  only  thing  in  the  whole  matter 
that  he  felt  any  reluctance  about  was,  how  he 
was  to  break  it  to  Jeanie,  whose  sweetness,  as 
his  confidential  friend  and  adviser,  had  been  very 
soothing  and  consolatory  to  him.  As  the  deci- 
sion had  to  be  made  at  once,  there  was  not  even 
much  time  in  which  to  break  it  to  Jeanie.  He 
strolled  past  her  father's  cottage  in  the  high 
toun  on  one  of  the  nights  when  Margaret  lay  at 
her  worst  in  a  haze  of  fever,  with  her  life  appar- 
ently hanging  on  a  thread.  But  none  of  all  the 
little  knot  of  people  at  the  Kirkton,  whose  lives 
were  tangled  with  hers,  were  as  yet  aware  of 
anything  that  had  occurred  to  her.  Rob  went 
slowly  past  the  little  window,  all  glowing  with 
fire-light,  where  John  Robertson  sat  tired  with 
his  work,  while  Jeanie  put  away  the  cups  and 
saucers  after  their  tea.  By-and-by  it  would  be 
necessaiy  to  light  "the  candle,"  for  he  had  still 
a  job  to  finish  before  bedtime ;  but  what  did 
they  want  with  the  candle  when  they  were  at 
their  tea?  Fire-light  was  quite  enough  for  the 
scanty  meal  and  the  conversation  which  went 
on,  not  without  a  divided  attention  on  Jeanie's 
part ;  for  she  could  not  but  think  that  she  heard 
a  step  outside  which  she  knew. 

"  I  think  I  will  run  out  for  two  or  three  min- 
utes and  see  Katie  Dewar,  when  you  are  settled 
to  your  work,  faither,"  Jeanie  said;  "she  is  al- 
ways complaining,  and  it's  a  fine  night,"  she  add- 
ed, with  a  little  compunction,  looking  out  through 
the  uncurtained  window.  The  sense  of  deceiv- 
ing, however,  was  not  at  all  strong  or  urgent  in 
her,  for  such  little  deceits  about  a  lover's  meeting 
are  leniently  dealt  with  in  Jeanie's  sphere. 

"You'll  no  be  very  long,  Jeanie."  Her  father 
had  a  sufficiently  good  notion  of  what  was  going 
on,  and,  as  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  any  com- 
plication in  Rob  Glen's  affections,  and  quite  con- 
fident in  his  daughter's  purity  and  goodness,  it 
did  not  disturb  him  much.  "Mind  that  it's  a 
cold  night,  and  dinna  loiter  about." 

"  I'll  no  be  very  long,  faither."  Jeanie  threw 
a  shawl  round  her,  but  left  her  pretty  head,  witli 
its  golden-brown  curling  hair,  uncovered.  If  it 
was  very  cold  it  was  always  easy  to  throw  a  fold 
of  the  shawl  over  her  head.  She  went  out,  with 
her  heart  beating — not  altogether  with  pleasure. 
To  be  with  him  was  still  a  kind  of  happiness,  and 
it  was  better  even  to  be  the  confidant  of  his 
engagement  with  another  —  which  Rob  had  so 
cunningly  implied  would  never  have  existed  had 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


147 


Jennie's  presence  hereabouts  been  known — than 
to  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  him.  She  stole 
along,  half  flying,  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses, 
and  finally  came  out  into  the  cold  moonlight,  at 
the  corner  beyond  the  little  square,  where  she 
could  see  some  one  waiting.  Poor  Jeanie !  her 
pleasure  and  her  sadness,  and  the  mixture  of 
the  sweet  with  the  bitter  which  was  in  these  in- 
terviews, had  become  a  kind  of  essential  elixir  to 
her  life. 

"Jeanie,"  he  said,  after  their  first  greetings 
were  over,  "I  am  going  away." 

"  Going  away!"  She  had  to  grasp  at  his  arm 
to  support  herself.  "Ay,"  she  said,  drearily,  af- 
ter a  pause,  "nae  doubt;  I  aye  kent  that  was 
how  it  would  have  to  be." 

"I  only  knew  it  myself  yesterday,"  he  said; 
"  I  have  not  lost  a  moment  in  telling  you.  How 
did  you  know  that  this  was  how  it  would  be  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  kent  it,"  she  said,  holding  her  hands 
clasped  to  support  herself;  "it  was  easy  to  di- 
vine— it  was  no  such  a  mystery.  Weel,  Maister 
Glen,  ye'll  go  to  her  ye've  chosen,  and  ye'll  be — 
real  happy  with  her.  She's  bonnie,  and  she's 
good,  and  she'll  give  ye  more,  far  more,  than  the 
like  of  us  could  give  you.  I  wish  ye  luck  with 
a'  my  heart.  Ay,  a'  my  heart !  baith  her  and 
you." 

Jeanie  withdrew  a  step  from  his  side  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  voice  took  something  of  the  soft 
wail  of  the  dove  in  the  inflections  and  modula- 
tions which  mark  the  native  tongue  of  Fife.  It 
was  in  a  kind  of  soft  cadence  that  she  spoke — 
too  soft  to  be  tragic,  but  pitiful  and  wailing,  the 
most  pathetic  of  utterances.  Jeanie  did  not  re- 
bel— it  was  natural,  it  was  right ;  but  the  blow 
went  to  her  heart. 

" My  foolish  Jeanie,"  he  said  ;  "what  are  you 
thinking  of?  Do  you  think  it  is  Margaret  that 
has  sent  for  me  ?  Do  you  think  she  is  going  to 
acknowledge  me  all  at  once,  and  that  all  our 
troubles  are  over?  No,  my  dear;  you  are  too 
simple  and  too  good,  my  bonnie  Jeanie.  It  is 
not  that.  Margaret  takes  no  notice  of  me.  I 
am  going  to  Edinburgh — to  a  situation,  not  for 
ease,  not  very  far  away — and  not  to  her,  Jeanie. 
You  must  not  give  me  up  so  soon." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  drew  her  close 
to  him  ;  and  Jeanie,  though  full  of  better  resolu- 
tions, was  weak  with  the  shock  she  had  just  re- 
ceived. She  was  thankful  to  lean  against  him 
for  a  moment. 

"No  that — not  to  her?  when  she  could  settle 
a'  if  she  pleased.  Eh,  Rob,  ladies  are  no  like — 
they're  no  like — " 

"You,  Jeanie?  No;  who  is  like  you?  Al- 
ways kind — whatever  happens,  always  ready  to 
forgive.  What  is  that  in  the  Bible,  '  Suffereth 
long,  and  is  kind.'  I  think  that  must  have  been 
made  for  you." 

"  Oh !"  said  Jeanie — like  Margaret,  in  the  soft 
long  breath  of  that  ejaculation — "we  shouldna 
quote  Scripture,  you  and  me !  for  what  we  are 
doing  is  a'  wrang.  Oh,  Rob,  it's  a'  wrang !  You 
that  are  troth-plighted  to  another  lass — though 
she  is  a  lady — and  me,  that — " 

"Yes,  you  that — what  of  you,  Jeanie?  not 
pledged,  you  must  not  say  so,  to  another  man." 

"And  if  I  was,"  she  cried,  "what  would  you 
have  to  do  with  it  ?  it  would  be  but  justice.  Na, 
na,  that's  no  what  I'm  meaning,  as  weel  ye  ken. 
My  heart  has  never  had  room  but  for  ane.     No 


— me  that  should  ken  better.  Oh,  dinna,  dinna, 
I  canna  have  it !  Me  that  should  have  kent  bet- 
ter was  what  I  meant  to  say." 

"Why  should  you  know  better?  How  can 
we  tell  what  will  happen  in  three  years?  And 
till  three  years  are  over  nothing  is  settled,"  he 
said,  with  a  secret  thrill  of  anxiety  and  pain  in 
his  heart  to  remember  that  this,  unlike  much  that 
lie  said,  was  altogether  true. 

"It's  true,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  "My 
heart's  that  heavy  I  can  think  of  nothing  but 
harm ;  we  may  a'  be  dead  in  three  years ;  and 
oh,  I  wish  it  might  be  over  with  me!" 

"I  cannot  have  you  speak  like  this,"  he  said. 
"I  am  going  to  Edinburgh — you  don't  seem  to 
care  to  hear — to  a  situation  Randal  Burnside  has 
offered  me.  I  don't  know  that  I  will  stay  in  it 
long.  Very  likely  it  will  only  be  a  stepping- 
stone  to  something  better.  I  will  see  you  when 
I  come  back,  which  will  be  often,  Jeanie ;  and 
indeed  I  think  you  might  come  over  to  see  your 
friends  in  Edinburgh — you  must  have  friends  in 
Edinburgh — and  see  me." 

"I'll  not  do  that,"  said  Jeanie,  decidedly. 
"You'll  not  do  that?     I  don't  think  that  is 
quite  kind.     But  never  mind,  I  will  come  home 
— often — on  Saturday,  like  Randal  Burnside. " 

"  Will  von  be  in  the  same  line  as  Maister 
Randal,  Rob  ?" 

"I  think  not  just  the  same  line.  He  pleads, 
you  know,  Jeanie,  in  the  Parliament  House,  be- 
fore the  judges,  and  I  will  have  to  manage  cases 
before  they  get  there.  It  is  a  very  important 
business.  Failing  what  I  was  brought  up  to — 
the  pulpit,  and  all  that  I  was  trained  for — I  think 
my  people  will  be  more  pleased  with  the  law  than 
anything  else.  It  is  always  respectable ;  it  is 
one  of  the  learned  professions.  I  will  not  deny 
that  it  is  a  very  good  opening,  Jeanie." 
"And  when  do  you  go  away  ?" 
"  This  week,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  lose 
any  more  time;  I  have  lost  all  my  summer.  It 
would  have  been  better  for  me  if  I  had  never 
come  home.  I  would  have  missed  you,  Jeanie  ; 
but  then  I  might  have  avoided  other  things  that 
can  never  be  got  rid  of  now. " 

"  Oh!"  she  said,  her  heart  wrung  with  the  sug- 
gestion, pleased  with  the  regret,  wounded  with 
the  comparison;  "I  wonder  if  you  would  say 
just  the  same  of  me  to  her  as  of  her  to  me  ?" 

"  How  could  I,  when  you  are  so  little  like  each 
other?"  he  said.  "But,  Jeanie,  let  us  think  of 
ourselves ;  let  us  not  bring  in  her,  or  any  one. 
My  bonnie  Jeanie,  when  I  come  back  I  shall  al- 
ways find  you  here?" 

"I  canna  tell — the  cobbling's  no  just  a  grand 
trade,  and  what  will  feed  ane  does  not  aye  serve 
two.  I  think  I  will  maybe  take  a  new  place — at 
the  New-Year." 

"But  not  to  take  you  from  the  Kirkton,  Jea- 
nie— not  to  take  you  away  from  me  ?" 

"If  it  was  to  take  me  far,  far  away — to  Lon- 
don, or  to  America,  or  New  Zealand,  where  so 
many  are  going — and  I  wish  my  faither  would 
think  of  it,"  she  said,  softly.  "Oh!  I've  great 
reason  to  pray,  'Lead  me  not  into  temptation,' 
for  I  would  be  far,  far  better  away." 

"You  are  not  like  yourself  to-night,  Jeanie. 
Why  should  you  lecture  me  to-night,  just  when 
you  have  to  say  good-bye  to  me — good-bye  for 
a  little  while  ?" 

"It  would  be  far,  far  better  if  it  was  good-bye 


148 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


forever,"  she  said;  "but  eh,  Rob,  I  canna  un- 
derstand mysel'.  I  would  be  glad  if  it  was  me 
that  was  to  go  —  ay  would  I.  I  would  go  to 
New  Zealand,  if  my  faither  would  but  come,  the 
morn  ;  but  when  it's  you,  a'  my  strength  fails  me, 
my  heart  goes  sinking  away  from  me,  my  head 
begins  to  turn  round.  I  know  it's  right,  but  I 
canna  bide  it,  Rob  !" 

"My  poor  little  Jeanie,"  he  said,  caressingly. 
"And  I  cannot  bide  it,  if  you  speak  of  what  a 
man  likes ;  but  it  is  better  for  me  that  I  should 
not  be  wasting  my  time.  I  should  be  doing  some 
work  that  will  be  worth  a  man's  while.  What  is 
money,  Jeanie  ?  I  shall  have  plenty  of  money. 
But  I  ought  to  be  known,  I  ought  to  think  of  my 
name." 

"Oh,  that's  true,"  she  said.  "I  know  well 
you're  no  a  lad  to  spend  your  life  in  a  quiet  coun- 
try place.  And  that  just  shows  me  more  and 
more  the  difference  between  you  and  me,  Rob. 
I  sh'ouldna  call  you  Rob — I  should  say  Maister 
Glen." 

' '  Will  you  write  to  me,  Jeanie  ?  That  was  why 
we  lost  sight  of  each  other.  I  did  not  know  where 
you  were ;  but  now  I  will  often  send  you  a  let- 
ter, and  then,  on  the  Saturdays,  I  will  probably 
corae  over  with  Randal  Burnside." 

"  Rob,  Mr.  Randal  is  a  gentleman,  and  so  will 
you  be  a  gentleman.  No,  oh  no ;  you  and  me 
should  say  farewell.  I'll  aye  think  upon  you. 
I'll  pray  for  you  night  and  morning ;  but  dinna 
speak  about  you  and  me.  We're  like  the  twa 
roads  at  Earl's -ha'  that  creep  thegither  under 
the  trees,  and  then  pairt,  ane  west,  the  ither  east. 
Oh,  Rob  !"  said  Jeanie,  with  streaming  eyes,  "  no 
good  will  ever  come  of  this.  Let  us  summon  up 
a  good  courage  and  pairt.  Here  we  should  pairt. 
No,  I'll  no  grudge  you  a  kiss,  for  it  will  be  the 
last.  It's  a'  been  meesery  and  confusion,  but  if 
we  pairt  the  warst  will  be  past.  Say  Farewell, 
and  God  bless  you,  Jeanie ! — and  ah !  with  all 
my  heart,  I'll  say  the  same  to  you." 

"You  are  trembling  so  that  you  can  scarcely 
stand,"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  I  will  let  you 
leave  me  like  this?  I  cannot  part  from  you, 
Jeanie,  and  why  should  I  ?  It  would  break  my 
heart." 

"It  has  broken  mine," said  Jeanie,  fervently  ; 
"but  rather  a  broken  heart  as  a  false  lite. 
Rob,  Rob,  baud  me  nae  longer,  but  let  me  gang 
to  my  faither.     I'm  safe  when  I'm  with  him." 

But  it  was  not  for  a  long  hour  after  this  that 
Jeanie  returned  to  her  father,  conducted  as  near 
as  he  could  venture  to  go  by  her  lover,  who 
grew  more  and  more  earnest  the  more  he  was 
resisted.  She  went  in  very  softly,  with  a  flushed 
and  glowing  cheek,  stealing  into  the  cottage  not 
to  disturb  the  solitary  inmate  who  sat  working 
on  by  the  light  of  his  dim  candle. 

"Is  that  you,  Jeanie?"  he  said,  placidly; 
"and  how  is  Katie  Dewar,  poor  body?"  This 
question  went  to  the  bottom  of  her  guilty  heart. 
"I'll  no  tell  you  a  lie,  faither;  I  wasna  near 
Katie  Dewar.  It's  a  fine  night,  and  the  moon 
shining;  I  gaed  down  the  road,  and  then  a  lit- 
tle up  the  road,  and  then — " 

"  Oh,  ay,  my  lass,  I  ken  weel  what  that  means," 
he  said;  "but  I  can  trust  my  Jeanie,  the  Lord 
be  praised  for  it.  I'm  just  done  with  my  job, 
and  it's  been  a  lang  job.  When  the  supper's 
ready  I'll  blow  out  the  candle,  and  then  if  you've 
onything  to  tell  me — " 


"  I  have  naething  to  tell  you,"  she  cried.  But 
as  they  sat  together  over  their  supper,  which  was 
of  "stoved"  potatoes,  a  savory  dish  unknown 
to  richer  tables,  Jeanie  pressed  upon  her  father 
once  more  with  incomprehensible  energy  and 
earnestness  the  idea  of  New  Zealand,  which  had 
already  two  or  three  times  been  talked  of  be- 
tween them  before. 

Rob,  however,  left  her  with  little  alarm  as  to 
New  Zealand.  He  was  deeply  gratified  by  that 
attachment  to  .himself  which  made  her  ready  to 
put  up  with  everything,  even  the  bond  which 
bound  him  to  another ;  and  the  struggle  in 
Jeanie's  mind  between  what  she  wished  and 
what  she  thought  right,  which  ended  in  the  tri- 
umph of  himself,  Rob,  over  all  other  powers  and 
arguments,  was  very  sweet  and  consolatory  to 
him.  It  healed  the  wounds  of  his  amour  propre. 
If  Margaret  did  not  give  him  the  devotion  he 
deserved,  Jeanie  gave  him  a  devotion  which  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  confess  he  had  not  deserved, 
and  this  reconciled  him  to  himself.  The  maid 
made  up  for  the  short-comings  of  the  mistress, 
and  perhaps  Jeanie's  simple  worship  even  gave 
a  little  license  to  Margaret  as  to  the  great  lady, 
from  whom,  in  her  ladyhood  and  greatness,  the 
same  kind  of  love  was  not  to  be  expected.  .  She 
had  tilings  in  her  power  to  bestow  more  substan- 
tial than  Jeanie's  tenderness,  and  with  these  she 
had  vowed  in  due  time  to  crown  this  favorite  of 
fortune.  Rob  was  a  sort  of  Sultan  in  his  way, 
and  liked  the  idea  of  getting  from  these  two 
women  the  best  they  had.  He  went  away  from 
Stratheden  a  few  days  after,  with  his  heart  quite 
soft  and  tender  to  his  Jeanie.  He  would  not 
forget  her  this  time.  He  would  write  to  her  and 
say  to  her  what  he  could  not  say  to  Margaret. 
He  would  keep  a  refuge  for  himself  in  her  soft 
heart,  whatever  happened.  And,  indeed,  who 
could  tell  what  might  happen  in  three  years  ? 

While  he  thus  made  a  settlement  which  quite 
pleased  him  in  his  affairs  of  the  heart,  the  other 
part  of  his  life  was  not  quite  so  satisfactory. 
The  position  which  he  took  in  the  office  of  Ran- 
dal's uncle  in  Edinburgh  was  naturally  that  of 
a  beginner,  and  he  did  not  "win  forward  "as  he 
had  hoped.  When  clients  came,  they  preferred 
to  see  the  principal  of  the  office,  and  instead  of 
making  acquaintance  among  the  gentry,  Rob 
found  that  all  he  had  to  do  with  them  was  open- 
ing the  door  to  them  when  they  came  in,  or 
showing  them  the  way  out  when  they  left  the 
office. 

He  did  not  say  much  about  this,  nor  did  he 
reveal  his  discontent  to  Randal,  having  sufficient 
good-sense  to  learn  by  experience,  and  perceiv- 
ing that  this  was  indeed  quite  natural  and  the 
only  thing  to  be  expected,  as  soon  as  circum- 
stances had  impressed  it  upon  him.  But  strug- 
gles with  reason  and  circumstances  of  this  kind, 
if  they  invariably  end  in  an  increase  of  hardly 
acquired  knowledge,  and  are  thus,  perhaps,  in- 
structive in  the  highest  degree,  are  not  pleasant. 
And  Rob  having  made  no  advance  in  "posi- 
tion,"and  having  no  important  work  confided  to 
him,  but  only,  as  was  natural,  the  most  element- 
ary and  routine  business,  soon  became  heartily 
sick  of  the  office  and  of  himself.  He  returned 
more  hotly  to  his  former  hopes,  as  he  felt  th<^ 
folly  of  this,  and  soon  began  to  be  conscious  of 
the  utter  incongruity  between  his  prospects  and 
his  present  position.     He  tried  to  console  him- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


149 


self  like  any  child,  by  imagining  to  himself 
scenes  of  delightful  revenge  for  nil  those  "  spurns 
which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes." 
When  he  was  Margaret's  husband,  and  the  pos- 
sessor of  her  fortune,  he  planned  to  himself  how 
he  too  would  become  a  client  of  the  employers 
who  now  treated  him  so  coolly.  What  piece  of 
business  would  he  intrust  to  them  ?  lie  would 
make  them  buy  in  EasTs-hall  if  it  ever  came  to 
be  sold.  He  would  consult  them  about  the  in- 
vestment of  the  long  accumulations  of  Marga- 
ret's minority.  But  in  the  mean  time,  while 
these  grandeurs  were  not  his,  the  office  became 
more  and  more  irksome  to  him. 

He  had  lost  the  habit  of  work  during  those 
idle  months  at  home,  where  love-making  had 
been  his  only  serious  occupation,  and  indeed  he 
had  never  had  the  habits  of  work  necessary  here, 
the  routine  of  certain  hours  and  clearly  defined 
duties,  which  the  more  free  and  less  regular 
work  of  education  is  in  general  so  little  akin  to. 
He  had  not  been  what  is  called  idle  in  his  stud- 
ies ;  but  then  these  are  always  vague,  and  a 
young  man  may  make  up  the  defective  work  of 
the  day  at  night  or  at  odd  moments,  which  a 
clerk  in  an  office  never  can  do.  After  a  while, 
Rob  had  become  so  entirely  disgusted  with  the 
humbleness  of  his  position  and  the  character  of 
his  work — so  deeply  impressed  by  the  incongru- 
ity of  his  present  with  the  future  he  looked  for- 
ward to — and  so  indignantly  conscious  of  pow- 
ers within  him  which  were  capable  of  something 
better  than  this,  that  he  threw  up  the  situation 
which  it  had  taken  Randal  no  small  trouble  to 
get  for  him.  and,  without  warning,  suddenly  set 
out  for  London,  carrying  with  him  his  sketches 
and  some  slight  and  frothy  literary  essays  which 
he  had  written,  with  the  full  intention  of  be- 
coming a  painter  and  an  author,  and  taking  the 
world  by  storm.  The  payment  of  three  months' 
salary  had  given  him  the  means  for  this ;  and 
he  felt  that  it  was  the  only  way,  and  that  he 
had  known  all  along  it  was  the  only  way,  to 
acquire  for  himself  fame  and  fortune.  He  had 
by  this  time  heard  of  Margaret's  illness,  and  of 
her  absence  ;  but  even  had  he  thought  of  doing 
so,  he  had  no  means  of  following  her  into  the 
expense  and  mystery  of  that  unknown  world 
which  the  ignorant  know  as  "  abroad."  Indeed, 
to  do  him  justice,  he  went  to  London  with  no 
intention  of  molesting  Margaret,  but  only  with 
a  very  fixed  determination  of  making  himself 
known — of  coming  to  some  personal  glory  or 
profit  which  should  make  up  to  him  for  the  per- 
sonal failure  of  the  past.  Rob  had  been  in 
London  for  about  a  month  on  that  eventful  day 
when  Randal  Burnside,  who  was  in  town  upon 
business,  had  met  him  in  the  Exhibition.  They 
had  met  not  without  a  certain  friendliness  ;  and 
Randal,  curious  to  know  what  he  was  doing,  and 
still  more  curious  to  ascertain  how  much  he  knew 
about  Margaret,  and  if  he  was  keeping  his  prom- 
ise in  respect  to  her,  had  engaged  Rob  to  dine 
with  him,  and  had  parted  from  him  only  a  few 
minutes  before  he  met  Margaret  herself. 

Meantime  Rob,  having  finished  his  inspection 
of  the  pictures,  and  convinced  himself  that  there 
were  many  there  much  inferior  to  his  own,  though 
he  could  find  no  purchasers  for  them,  was  issu- 
ing somewhat  moodily  forth,  when  a  slight  fig- 
ure in  black  hurrying  down  the  steps  before 
him,  and  clinging  closely  to  the  arm  of  a  man 


whom  he  thought  he  had  seen  before,  yet  did 
not  recognize,  caught  his  eye.  He  stood  and 
looked  after  them  while  the  carriage  was  call- 
ed, his  curiosity  awakened  he  could  scarcely  tell 
why.  He  had  followed  them  down  to  the  pave- 
ment, and  had  just  reached  it  when  Aubrey  put 
Margaret  into  the  carriage ;  and  all  at  once  a  vi- 
sion of  that  well-known  face,  all  tremulous  and 
eager,  avoiding,  as  he  thought,  his  suddenly  ex- 
cited gaze,  rose  before  him.  In  another  moment 
the  carriage  was  dashing  along  more  quickly  than 
is  usual  in  the  streets  of  London.  Rob  stood 
with  a  gasp  gazing  after  it,  and  did  not  come  to 
himself  till  it  was  too  late  to  attempt  the  frantic 
expedient  of  jumping  into  a  hansom  and  rushing 
after  it.  He  did  so  when  he  realized  what  it 
was  that  had  happened ;  but  by  this  time  it  was 
too  late,  and  he  had  not  remarked  the  appear- 
ance of  the  carriage,  but  only  the  face  in  it. 
Margaret !  The  sight  put  sudden  fire  into  his 
veins.  He  must  see  her ;  he  must  claim  her. 
It  was  irrational  and  monstrous  that  a  girl  who 
was  his  promised  wife  should  be  entirely  sepa- 
rated from  him.  Whether  it  was  her  own  will 
or  that  of  her  friends,  he  would  not  submit  to  it 
any  more. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

It  was  Rob,  perhaps,  who  had  the  most  right 
to  be  excited  by  this  unexpected  vision ;  but 
Randal,  who  had  no  right,  was  also  driven  half 
wild  by  it,  and  altogether  lost  his  head  as  he 
stood  gazing  blankly  about  him,  and  saw  Mar- 
garet, rather  dragging  Aubrey  after  her  than  be- 
ing conducted  by  him,  thread  through  the  crowd 
with  such  an  eager  impulse  of  flight.  Few 
young  men  could  have  refused  to  be  a  little  bi- 
assed and  shaken  from  their  equilibrium  by  the 
sweetness  of  such  a  reception  as  he  had  just  re- 
ceived. The  brightening  of  her  countenance, 
the  look  of  pleasure  that  overspread  her  face, 
the  gleam  of  sweet  friendliness  and  welcome 
would  have  been  pleasant  from  any  one ;  but 
from  her  who  had  already  touched  his  fancy  and 
interested  his  heart — from  her  to  whom  already 
he  had  given  a  devotion  which  was  of  the  nature 
of  friendship  rather  than  love — it  was  more  than 
pleasant,  it  set  every  nerve  tingling.  His  devo- 
tion had  borne  a  kind  of  character  of  friendship, 
he  thought ;  for  was  not  love  hopeless  on  her 
side,  pledged  as  she  was?  And  yet  he  could 
not  do  less  than  serve  her  for  the  sake  of  her 
childhood,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  associations  of 
the  past,  but  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  herself,  so 
sweet  as  she  was,  so  tender,  and  lovely,  and 
young — the  kind  of  creature  whom  it  would  be 
sweet  to  shield  from  all  trouble. 

It  had  wrung  his  heart  before  now  to  think 
how  little  he  could  do  for  Margaret,  having  no 
right  to  stand  by  her.  What  right  had  he  to 
interfere?  He  was  not  even  a  connection  like 
Aubrey,  whom  he  called  "that  English  fellow," 
just  as  Aubrey  called  him  "  that  Scotch  fellow  " 
and  "the  man  of  Killin."  He  had  to  stand  by 
and  see  her  go  out  into  the  world  with  nobody 
who  understood  her,  her  life  already  fettered  by- 
bonds  so  unsuitable,  so  foolishly  formed,  but  be- 
yond all  power  of  his  to  interfere.  And  now  to 
receive  such  a  welcome  from  her,  to  see  her  face 
so  lit  up  with  pleasure  to  greet  him,  went  to 


150 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


Randal's  very  heart.  It  seemed  to  send  a  cor- 
responding light  over  his  whole  being :  he  did 
not  ask  himself  what  it  meant ;  but  it  was  not 
possible  that  Margaret's  sudden  unaffected  light- 
ing up  at  sight  of  himself,  and  her  unaccount- 
able horror  and  terror  and  flight  at  the  name 
of  Glen,  should  not  have  stirred  all  manner  of 
strange  emotions  in  Randal.  He  made  a  virtue 
of  patience  for  an  hour  or  two  until  he  thought 
it  certain  that  her  sisters  would  also  have  gone 
home,  and  then  he  hastened  to  the  address  Au- 
brey had  unwillingly  given  him,  missing,  by  so 
doing,  an  excited  visit  from  Rob  Glen,  who, 
after  driving  wildly  through  the  bewildering 
streets  in  hopeless  confusion,  bethought  him- 
self that  Randal  might  know  where  Margaret 
was  likely  to  be  found.  They  missed  each  oth- 
er on  the  crowded  way,  and  Randal  went  on, 
with  his  head  full  of  dreams,  in  a  kind  of  intox- 
ication of  beatitude  and  wonder.  What  a  change 
since  this  morning  had  come  over  the  young 
man's  life ! 

When,  however,  he  reached  the  place  where 
the  ladies  were  staying,  it  was  into  the  midst 
of  confusion  and  excitement  that  Randal  found 
himself  suddenly  thrown.  Mrs.  Bellingham  was 
walking  about  the  room  in  great  commotion, 
Miss  Grace  crying  softly  on  a  sofa.  They  re- 
ceived him  without  surprise  as  people  already 
too  much  excited  to  find  any  new  event  unex- 
pected or  strange. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Randal  ?"  said  Mrs.  Belling- 
ham ;  "  I  am  sorry  to  say  we  have  scarcely  time 
to  receive  you  as  we  should  like.  We  had  set- 
tled ourselves  for  a  week  in  town,  and  got  very 
nice  rooms  and  everything;  and  I  had  quanti- 
ties of  things  to  do — the  work  of  a  year,  I  may 
say.  We  have  no  clothes,  not  an  article  to  put 
on,  and  there  were  a  hundred  things  I  wanted. 
But  all  is  thrown  into  disorder,  all  is  unsettled, 
and  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  do  anything.  We  must 
go  back  to  the  Grange  at  once  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay." 

"Dearest  Jean!"  said  Miss  Grace,  with 
streaming  eyes,  "you  know  you  said  we  must 
just  give  ourselves  up  to  dear  Margaret ;  and  if 
it  makes  her  ill  to  stay  in  London,  how  can  it  be 
helped  ?  Let  me  go  with  dearest  Margaret,  and 
do  you  stay  and  do  your  shopping — " 

"As  if  I  would  trust  her  out  of  my  hands! 
especially  if  she  is  going  to  be  ill  again.  But 
here  is  the  thing  that  puzzles  me.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  Margaret  being  ill,  Randal,  at  Earl's- 
hall?  But  here  is  a  girl  that  was  as  strong  as 
— as  strong  as  a  little  pony — in  Fife,  and  she 
gets  congestion  of  the  lungs  as  soon  as  she  comes 
to  the  South,  and  cannot  stay  two  days  in  Lon- 
don !  I  never  heard  anything  like  it — of  course 
I  am  very  sorry  for  Margaret.  What  have  I 
been  doing  but  devoting  myself  to  her  for  the 
last  five  months?  And  she  was  just  blooming 
— would  you  not  have  called  her  blooming,  Au- 
brey? But  London  does  not  agree  with  her. 
Fancy  London  not  agreeing  with  a  girl !  I  don't 
know  when  I  have  been  so  much  put  out  in  all 
my  life." 

"Is— Miss  Leslie  — ill?"  said  Randal,  not 
knowing  how  to  shape  the  question. 

' '  Yes ;  she  grew  faint  and  ill  just  after  we  met 
you,"  said  Aubrey,  looking  at  him  with  steady 
composure.  "  I  thought  the  best  thing  to  do  was 
to  get  her  out  of  that  beastly  atmosphere  at  once." 


"Oh,  you  did  quite  right,  Aubrey;  I  am  not 
in  the  least  blaming  you.  Much  better,  in  such 
a  case,  to  leave  at  once  ;  for  if  she  had  fainted 
outright,  in  the  middle  of  the  crowd,  that  would 
have  been  a  pretty  business  !  I  never  was  used 
to  girls  who  fainted,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham, 
plaintively.  "  I  have  known  them  to  get  bad 
headaches  when  there  was  nothing  going  on ; 
but  fainting,  just  when  we  were  all  amusing  our- 
selves— and  we  have  got  a  box  at  the  opera  to- 
night !  it  really  is  enough  to  send  one  out  of 
one's  wits — a  box  at  the  opera !  and  you  know 
what  a  chance  that  is." 

"But,  dearest  Jean!  do  you  go;  I  will  stay 
with  dear  Margaret.  I  shall  not  mind  it ;  in- 
deed, I  shall  not  mind  it  much ;  and  you  know 
she  has  been  persuaded  ;  she  has  given  up  the 
idea  of  going  home  to-night." 

"  Going  to-night  was  simply  impossible !  we 
are  not  all  born  idiots  !"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham, 
with  a  vigor  of  language  which  betrayed  her  na- 
tionality. Then,  calming  down  a  little,  she  seat- 
ed herself  and  began  to  pour  out  the  tea,  which 
had  been  neglected.  "I  am  sure  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Randal,  for  letting  you  see  me  in  such  a 
'fuff.'  But  it  is  provoking,  you  will  allow.  And 
as  for  going  to  the  opera  by  myself,  or  with  only 
Grace,  instead  of  having  a  pretty,  fresh  young 
girl  by  our  side  that  everybody  would  remark !  I 
declare  one  would  need  to  have  the  patience  of 
a  saint  not  to  feel  it.  Oh,  ill  ?  No,  I  don't  think 
she  is  very  ill ;  just  upset,  you  know.  Indeed, 
I  should  have  said  it  was  more  like  a  fright  than 
anything  else  ;  but  Aubrey  says  there  was  noth- 
ing— no  accident,  nor  runaway  horse,  nor  man 
killed.  I've  seen  that  happen  in  London  streets, 
and  very  awful  it  was." 

"No,"  said  Aubrey,  steadily,  "there  was 
nothing  of  that  sort ;  but  the  atmosphere  was 
bad  enough  for  anything;  and  then  the  fatigue 
of  the  journey — " 

"Do  you  take  sugar  in  your  tea,  Randal? 
So  many  people  take  no  sugar,  it  is  always  a 
trouble  to  recollect  what  you  young  people 
take  and  what  you  don't  take.  Well,  I  suppose 
we  will  just  have  to  make  up  our  minds  to  it. 
Steward  can  stay  with  Margaret  to-night,  and 
we  will  go.  It  is  no  use  throwing  away  a  box 
at  the  height  of  the  season." 

"  But,  dearest  Jean,  let  me  stay  with  dear 
Margaret.  I  don't  really  mind.  I  am  sure  I 
don't  mind — " 

"  And  to-morrow  we  must  just  go  back,"  said 
Mrs.  Bellingham,  sweeping  on  in  the  larger  cur- 
rent of  her  discourse.  "You  must  remember 
me  very  kindly  to  your  excellent  father  and 
mother,  Randal.  I  hope  we  shall  see  them  in  the 
autumn.  We  are  pretty  sure  to  be  in  Fife  in  the 
autumn.  Margaret  will  be  distressed  not  to  see 
you  ;  but,  after  all  that  has  happened,  I  thought 
"the  best  place  for  her  was  just  her  bed ;  so  I 
made  her  lie  down,  and  I  don't  like  to  disturb 
her.  She  will  be  quite  distressed  not  to  see  you, 
when  you  have  been  so  kind  as  to  take  up  your 
time  calling — which  really  is  a  thing,  with  peo- 
ple only  up  in  town  for  a  few  days,  that  I  never 
expect.    You  must  have  so  many  things  to  do." 

This  Randal  took  as  a  hint  that  he  had  at 
present  "taken  up  his  time"  and  hers  long 
enough,  and  he  went  away  horribly  disappoint- 
ed, tingling  with  pain  as  he  had  done  with  pleas- 
ure and  excitement  when  ho  came,  yet,  but  for 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


151 


the  disappointment,  not  so  entirely  cast  down  as  ' 
lie  might  have  been.  Margaret's  determined 
flight,  her  abandonment  of  the  place  where  Rob 
Glen  was,  even  though  that  place  was  London — 
large  enough,  it  might  be  supposed,  to  permit 
two  strangers  to  inhabit  it  at  the  same  time 
without  meeting — and  her  evident  horror  of  the 
engagement  between  them,  made  Randal's  spir- 
its rise  more  than  his  disappointment  subdued 
them.  This  bondage  once  cleared  away,  and 
Rob  Glen  dropped  back  again  into  the  regions 
to  which  he  belonged,  who  could  tell  what 
might  happen  ? 

There  was  but  one  thing  that  abode  a  promi- 
nent alarm  in  his  mind,  after  the  first  sting  of 
disappointment  was  over,  and  that  was  "  the 
other  fellow,"  who  lied  so  calmly  on  Margaret's 
behalf.  Was  he  in  her  confidence  too  ?  Ran- 
dal felt  that  to  possess  her  confidence  as  he  him- 
self did  was  as  great  a  privilege  as  any  man 
could  have ;  but  somehow,  curiously  enough,  it 
did  not  seem  to  him  either  so  sacred  or  so  seem- 
ly that  Aubrey  should  possess  it  too.  He  felt 
that  the  suggestion  of  this  wounded  him  for 
Margaret's  sake.  She  ought  not  to  take  a 
young  man  into  her  confidence  —  it  was  not 
quite  delicate,  quite  like  the  perfection  of  Mar- 
garet. This  was  the  only  thing  that  really  and 
permanently  troubled  him  as  he  went  away. 

And  he  had  not  been  long  back  in  his  hotel 
when,  a  little  before  the  dinner  hour  at  which  he 
expected  Rob  to  appear,  the  chief  hero  of  the 
whole  entanglement  suddenly  made  his  appear- 
ance in  a  very  evident  state  of  excitement.  Rob 
was  pale,  his  eyes  wild  with  anxiety,  his  hair 
hanging  dishevelled  over  his  forehead,  as  he 
wiped  it  with  his  handkerchief,  and  his  coat 
covered  with  dust.  He  looked  eagerly  round, 
though  he  did  not  know  himself  what  he  expected 
to  see.  He  waited  till  the  door  was  closed,  and 
then  he  said  hurriedly,  "Burnside,  I  have  seen 
Margaret ;  I  saw  her  coming  out  of  the  Acade- 
my when  I  met  you  this  morning.  I  have  been 
rushing  about  half  over  London  after  her,  and  I 
cannot  find  her.  Have  you  heard  anything  or 
seen  anything,  or  can  you  guess  where  she  is 
likely  to  be  ?" 

"Sit  down,  Glen." 

"  Sit  down! — that  is  no  answer.  I  don't  feel 
as  if  I  could  sit  down  until  I  have  spoken  to  her. 
Tell  me  where  you  think  she  can  be." 

"Glen,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you.  They  are  gone,  or  go- 
ing away,  that  much  I  heard.  I  saw  Mrs.  Bel- 
lingham  this  afternoon,  and  she  told  me  that  her 
sister  was  ill  again,  and  that  they  were  off  at 
once.  She  found  that  London  did  not  agree 
with  her." 

"  HI  again  ? — gone  away!"  said  Rob,  hoarse- 
ly :  then  he  threw  down  his  hat  upon  the  table 
with  an  exclamation  of  annoyance  and  pain. 
"  It  is  not  treating  me  fairly.  I  ought  to  see 
her,"  he  cried,  and  threw  himself,  weary  and  an- 
gry, upon  the  nearest  chair. 

"  I  think  so  too,"  said  Randal,  seriously.  "I 
think  you  ought  to  see  her.  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  your  feelings,  Glen  ;  but  I  think  you  should 
see  her,  and  make  her  tell  you  candidly  the 
state  of  affairs." 

' '  What  do  you  mean  by  the  state  of  affairs  ? 
Tf  it  is  that  her  family  are  oppssed  to  the  ex- 
istence of  any  tie  between  hsr  and  me,  that  is 


no  new  discovery.  I  know  that,  and  site  knows 
that  I  know  it." 

"  That  was  not  all  I  meant,  Glen — that  is  bad 
enough.  You  know  my  opinion:  As  a  man  of 
honor,  I  think  you  have  a  duty  even  to  the  fam- 
ily ;  but  this  is  different.  She  is  not  happy.  I 
think  you  ought  to  have  a  full  explanation,  and 
— set  things  on  a  right  footing." 

"What  does  setting  things  on  a  right  footing 
mean  ?"  Rob  said,  with  an  attempt  at  a  sneer, 
which  was  more  like  a  snarl  of  despair.  He 
had  not  found  it  such  easy  work  "making  his 
way  "  in  London.  His  money  was  running  short, 
and  he  had  nothing  to  do,  and  no  prospect 
of  being  able  to  support  himself  much  longer. 
Margaret  was  his  sheet-anchor,  his  sole  hope  in 
the  future.  He  thought,  too,  that  the  rapid 
dash  away  of  the  carnage  was  not  accidental, 
that  she  had  seen  him  and  driven  him  wild  ;  and 
this  bitter  reflection  embittered  him,  and  made 
him  ready  to  take  offence  at  anything  or  noth- 
ing. He  was  miserable  altogether,  excited,  dis- 
tracted, anxious  —  and  tired  to  death  besides. 
He  had  taken  nothing  since  the  morning,  having 
rushed  off  in  wild  pursuit  of  her  instead  of  get- 
ting his  usual  mid-day  meal.  He  bent  down  his 
head  upon  his  folded  arms,  after  that  angry 
question,  and  thus  defeated  all  Randal's  disposi- 
tion to  find  fault  or  blame  him,  if  there  had  been 
any  such  disposition  in  Randal's  mind. 

On  the  contrary,  however,  the  young  man's 
heart,  softened  by  the  gleam  of  brightness  that 
had  seemed  to  come  upon  his  own  life  out  of 
Margaret's  eyes,  melted  altogether  over  the  un- 
lucky presumptuous  lover,  the  fool  who  had  rush- 
ed in  "where  angels  might  fear  to  tread,"  the 
unfortunate  one  who  had  lost  all  chance  of  that 
prize  at  which  he  had  snatched  too  quickly  and 
too  roughly.  Randal  forgot  to  think  of  his  pre- 
sumption, of  his  doubtful  conduct,  and  all  his  of- 
fences against  good  taste  and  the  highest  stand- 
ard of  honor,  in  sheer  pity  for  the  downfall  of 
him  who  had  soared  so  high.  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  other's  shoulder. 

"Glen,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  the  first  who 
has  made  a  mistake,  or  who  has  been  the  victim 
of  a  mistake.  That  is  no  disparagement  to  you  : 
it  is  only  continuing  in  the  mistake  that  would 
be  blamable.  You  and  she  —  let  her  name  be 
sacred — I  do  not  like  even  to  refer  to  her — " 

"Who?  Margaret?"  said  Rob,  defiant.  He 
would  have  his  way,  whatever  the  other  might 
think.  "I  have  no  reason  to  be  so  shy  about 
her  name.  Advice  is  very  seldom  palatable  in 
the  best  of  circumstances ;  but  between  me  and 
Margaret — "  Because  Randal  had  deprecated 
the  use  of  her  name,  he  insisted  on  using  it. 
He  had  a  kind  of  insolent  satisfaction  in  turning 
it  over  and  over.  "Between  me  and  Marga- 
ret," he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "there  is  no  need 
of  advice,  that  I  know  of — we  understand  each 
other.  Mistake  there  is  none  between  Marga- 
ret and  me." 

Randal  bowed  very  gravely — he  did  not  smile. 
The  color  wavered  over  his  face — then  departed, 
"  In  that  case  there  is  nothing  to  be  said." 

"Not  a  word;  Margaret  and  I  understand 
each  other.  Margaret —  I  suppose  I  can  wash 
my  hands  somewhere  before  dinner.  I  am  aa 
dusty  as  a  lamplighter  with  rushing  about." 

And  they  dined  together,  talking  of  everything 
in  the  world  except  Margaret,  and  thinking  of 


152 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


nothing  else.  It  was  a  relief  to  Randal  that  her 
name  was  no  longer  on  the  lips  of  his  unconge- 
nial companion  ;  but  yet  the  silence  brought  in 
a  more  eager  and  painful  wonder  as  to  what  he 
was  going  to  do.  But  Randal  could  not  renew 
the  subject,  and  Rob  did  not.  He  went  away 
early,  without  having  once  again  referred  to  the 
matter  which  occupied  both  their  thoughts. 

He  lived  in  a  humble  room  in  one  of  the 
streets  which  run  from  the  Strand  to  the  river — 
not  an  unpleasant  place,  for  his  window  com- 
manded the  Thames ;  but  it  was  a  very  long 
walk  from  Randal's  hotel.  He  went  slowly 
through  the  streets,  through  all  the  loitering 
crowds  of  the  summer  evening,  which  were  no 
longer  bustling  and  busy,  but  had  an  air  of  re- 
pose and  enjoyment  about  them.  Rob  loitered 
too,  but  not  from  any  sense  of  the  pleasantness 
of  the  air,  or  the  season.  He  had  no  one  to 
care  whether  he  came  in  or  not,  and  it  was  easier 
to  think,  and  think  again,  over  this  difficult  ques- 
tion which  must  be  decided  one  way  or  another, 
in  the  open  air,  than  it  was  within-doors,  shut 
up  with  a  question  which  he  had  debated  so  of- 
ten. If  Margaret  was  weary  of  the  bargain,  if 
she  shrank  from  him  and  avoided  him,  what 
should  he  do?  One  moment  he  thought  of 
casting  her  off  proudly,  of  showing  her  what  he 
thought  of  her  fickleness,  and  taunting  her  with 
her  Englishman,  "  that  fellow  "  who  was  always 
with  her.  This  would  have  been  the  most  con- 
solatory to  his  feelings.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
to  point  out  to  her  the  cowardice,  the  dishonor 
of  breaking  her  word,  the  strength  of  the  pledge 
which  she  could  not  escape  from,  was  better  in 
another  sense.  Why  should  she  be  permitted  to 
forsake  him  because  she  had  changed  her  mind? 
What  right  had  she  to  change  her  mind  ?  Was 
it  a  less  sin  in  a  woman  than  in  a  man  to  break 
a  promise,  to  think  nothing  of  a  vow  ?  A  man 
would  not  be  allowed  to  escape  scathless  from 
such  a  perjury,  why  should  a  girl  ?  And  as  he 
walked  along  the  street,  mortified,  humbled, 
breathing  forth  fumes  of  anger  and  pain,  there 
even  gleamed  before  Rob's  eyes  the  scrap  of 
paper,  the  promise  on  which  his  mother  counted, 
which  was  locked  in  the  secretary  in  the  farm- 
parlor.  He  had  hated  the  vulgar  sharpness 
which  had  exacted  that  promise  from  Margaret, 
he  had  scouted  it  as  a  means  of  keeping  any  hold 
upon  her.  But  now,  when  he  felt  so  strong  a 
desire  to  punish  her,  such  an  eager,  vindictive 
determination  not  to  let  her  go  free,  even  this 
came  into  his  mind.  Not  to  secure  her  by  it — 
which  was  his  mother's  thought,  but  at  least  to 
punish  her  by  it.  He  would  send  for  it,  he 
thought ;  he  would  keep  it  by  him  as  a  scourge, 
not  as  a  compulsion.  He  would  let  all  her  friends 
see  at  least  how  far  she  had  gone,  how  she  had 
pledged  herself,  and  how  she  was  forsworn. 

While  he  was  pursuing  these  thoughts,  loi- 
tering along  through  the  soft  summer  night,  jos- 
tled by  the  sauntering  crowds  who  could  not 
walk,  even  in  the  London  streets,  at  that  soft 
hour  as  they  did  during  the  day,  his  ear  was 
suddenly  caught  by  the  intonations,  so  different 
from  those  around,  the  low-pitched,  lingering 
vowels,  and  half  chanting  measure  of  his  natural 
tongue.  Not  only  Scotch  but  Fife  were  the 
sounds  that  reached  his  ears:  now  the  heavy 
rolling  bass  of  a  man,  then  a  softer  voice.  Good 
heavens!   who  was  it?     A  tall,  feeble -looking, 


large-boned  man,  a  trim  little  figure  by  his  side, 
moving  lightly  and  yet  languidly,  like  her  voice, 
which  had  caught  Rob's  ear  by"  reason  of  some- 
thing pathetic  in  it.  The  words  she  said  were 
words  of  ordinary  wonder  and  curiosity,  such  as 
became  a  country  lass  in  the  street  of  London  ; 
but  the  tone  was  sad  and  went  to  the  heart,  not- 
withstanding the  little  laugh  with  which  it  was 
sometimes  interrupted.  Was  it  possible?  He 
turned  round  and  followed  them  eagerly,  growing 
more  and  more  certain  of  their  identity,  schem- 
ing to  get  a  glimpse  of  their  faces,  and  make 
certainty  sure.  Jeanie!  how  came  she  here? 
He  stepped  forward  as  soon  as  he  was  certain  of 
her,  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  her  shoulder. 
She  started  and  turned  round  with  a  low  cry. 
A  gleam  of  delight  came  over  her  face.  Her 
soft  eyes  lighted  up  with  sudden  warmth  and 
gladness.  It  was  the  same  change  that  had  taken 
place  on  Margaret's  face  while  Aubrey  Belling- 
ham — who  was  not  the  cause — watched  it  with 
disagreeable  surprise;  but  this  was  warmer  and 
more  brilliant,  more  evanescent  too ;  for  Jeanie's 
countenance  fell  the  next  moment,  and  trouble, 
like  a  gray  shadow,  came  over  her  face. 

"Jeanie!"  cried  Rob,  "how  on  earth  have 
you  come  here?  What  has  brought  you  here? 
Where  are  you  staying?  What  are  you  going 
to  do?     I  cannot  believe  my  eyes !" 

She  stood  trembling  before  him,  unable  to  raise 
her  eyes,  overcome  by  the  happiness  of  seeing 
him,  the  wretchedness  of  parting — a  wretched- 
ness which  she  thought,  poor  girl,  she  had  eluded, 
with  all  the  conflict  of  feeling  it  must  have 
brought.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  she  could  only 
smile  at  him  faintly,  and  begin  to  cry. 

"Maister  Glen,"  said  her  father,  "you  maun 
speak  to  me ;  Jeanie  has  had  enough  of  fash 
and  sorrow.  We  are  on  our  way — to  please  her, 
no  for  ony  wish  of  mine  —  on  a  lang  voyage. 
We're  strangers  and  pilgrims  here  in  this  muckle 
London,  as  I  never  realized  the  state  before." 

"On  a  long  voyage!"  Rob,  though  he  had 
got  through  so  much  emotion  one  time  and  an- 
other, felt  his  heart  stand  still  and  a  cold  sensa- 
tion of  dismay  steal  over  him.  Had  he  not  been 
keeping  himself  a  refuge  in  Jeanie's  heart,  what- 
ever might  happen?  He  said,  "This  is  a  terri- 
ble surprise.  I  never  thought  you  would  have 
taken  such  a  step  as  this,  Jeanie,  without  letting 
me  know." 

"  Maister  Glen,"  said  Jeanie,  adopting  her  fa- 
ther's solemn  mode  of  address,  and  hastily  brush- 
ing the  tears  from  her  cheek,  "  wherever  I  gang, 
what's  that  to  you  ?"  Her  voice  was  scarcely 
audible  ;  he  had  half  to  guess  at  what  she  said. 

"It  is  a  great  deal  to  me,"  he  cried;  "I 
never  thought  you  would  treat  me  so :  going 
away  without  a  word  of  warning,  without  say- 
ing good-bye,  without  letting  me  know  you  had 
any  thought  of  it !" 

A  thrill  of  pain  penetrated  Rob's  heart.  It 
was  half  ludicrous,  but  he  did  not  see  anything 
ludicrous  in  it.  They  were  both  flying  from 
him,  one  on  either  side,  the  two  girls  with  whom 
his  fate  was  woven — one  for  want  of  love,  the 
other  for  too  much  love.  Rob  saw  no  humor  in 
the  position,  but  he  felt  the  poignancy  and  sting 
of  it  piercing  through  and  through  his  heart. 
Should  he  be  abandoned  altogether,  then ;  left 
entirely  alone,  without  any  love  at  all  ?  But  his 
whole  nature  rose  up  fiercely  against  this.     He 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


153 


would  not  submit  to  it.  If  not  one,  then  the 
other.  "It  cannot  be,  it  cannot  be.  I  will  not 
let  you  go,"  he  said. 

"  Maister  Glen,"  said  her  father,  "I  canna 
rightly  tell  what  has  been  between  Jeanie  and 
you.  You're  better  off  than  she  is  in  this  world, 
and  your  friends  might  have  reason  to  complain 
if  you  bound  yourself  to  a  poor  cobbler's  daugh- 
ter. But  this  I  ken,  you  have  brought  my  Jeanie 
more  trouble  than  pleasure.  Gang  your  ways, 
my  man,  and  let  us  gang  ours.  Jeanie,  bid  Mr. 
Glen  farewell." 

"  I  will  say  no  farewell  till  I  know  more  about 
it,"  he  said.  "  Where  are  you  staying ?  I  must 
see  more  of  you,  I  must  hear  all  about  it.  We 
are  old  friends  at  least,  John  Robertson;  you 
cannot  deny  me  that." 

"  Old  enough  friends  ;  but  what  o'  that  ?  It's 
no  years,  but  kindness,  that  I  look  to.  We're 
biding  up  west  a  bittie,  with  a  decent  woman 
from  Cupar.  I'm  putting  no  force  upon  Jeanie 
to  take  her  away.  It's  a'  her  ain  doing  ;  and  if 
her  and  you  have  onything  you  want  to  say,  I'll 
no  forbid  the  saying  of  it ;  but  I  dinna  advise 
thae  last  words  and  thae  lang  farewells,"  said 
John  Robertson,  shaking  his  head.  Jeanie  look- 
ed up  at  him  wistfully,  with  a  sad  smile  in  her 
wet  eyes. 

"Let  him  come  this  ae  night,  faither — this  ae 
night,"  she  said,  in  her  plaintive  voice;  "rnaist 
likely  it  will  be  the  last." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Randal  Bcunside  was  found  at  the  station 
in  the  morning,  though  the  train  was  an  early 
one,  to  see  the  ladies  away;  which,  as  the  trav- 
ellers were  only  Margaret  and  Grace,  and  as  this 
was  one  of  the  things  impossible  to  Aubrey,  who 
could  not  get  up  in  the  morning,  was  a  kindness 
very  much  appreciated.  It  had  finally  been  de- 
cided, after  much  consultation,  that  as  nothing 
ever  happened  at  the  Grange,  and  as  even  Mr. 
St.  John  was  absent,  Grace  might  be  sufficient 
guardian  for  Margaret  for  the  few  days  longer 
which  Mrs.  Bellingham  was  compelled  by  her 
shopping  to  remain  in  town.  There  was  Miss 
Parker,  who  would  keep  her  right  on  one  hand, 
and  there  was  Bland,  the  most  respectable  of 
butlers,  on  the  other,  to  guide  her  steps.  So, 
with  a  flutter  of  mingled  disappointment  and 
exhilaration,  Miss  Leslie  had  assumed  the  charge 
of  her  young  sister.  It  was  a  great  relief  to 
Grace's  mind  to  see  "a  gentleman"  at  the  sta- 
tion, j-eady  to  relieve  her  of  all  anxieties  in  re- 
spect to  the  luggage,  and  she  thought  it  "  a  great 
attention"  on  his  part.  He  was  very  useful,  as 
she  always  said  afterward.  Not  only  did  he  se- 
cure them  in  a  carriage  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
train  (which  was  such  a  safeguard  in  case  of 
accidents)  and  look  after  the  luggage,  but  he 
waited  till  the  very  last  moment,  though  it  was 
wasting  his  time  sadly ;  and  young  men,  when 
they  are  in  London  only  for  a  few  days,  really 
have  no  time,  as  Miss  Grace  knew.  She  smiled 
upon  him  most  sweetly,  and  entreated  him  not 
to  wait ;  but  he  kept  his  post ;  it  was  a  great 
attention. 

"And  if  you  should  want  anything,"  Randal 
said,  with  great  meaning,  "I  shall  be  in  town, 


at  the  Wrangham,  for  ten  days  longer."  This 
was  repeated  as  he  stood  with  his  hand  upon  tho 
carriage  door  just  before  the  train  started. 

"  I  am  sure,  Randal,  we  are  very  much 
obliged,"  said  Miss  Leslie;  "but  you  see  dear 
Jean  is  in  town  behind  us,  and  she  will  do  all 
our  commissions,  if  there  is  anything  wanted. 
Dearest  Margaret  and  I  will  not  want  very  much, 
and  dear  Jean  knows  about  everything ;  but  I 
am  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  you,  and  a  great  atten- 
tion— "  And  as  the  train  was  gliding  away  out 
of  the  station,  she  put  out  her  head  again  to  beg 
that  he  would  give  her  very  kind  regards,  when 
he  saw  them,  to  his  dear  papa  and  mamma. 

Margaret's  mind  had  been  preoccupied  with  a 
dread  of  seeing  some  one  else  waiting  to  pre- 
vent her  escape,  and  it  was  not  till  the  train  was 
in  motion  that  she  felt  safe,  and  sufficiently  re- 
lieved to  wave  her  hand  in  answer  to  Randal's 
parting  salutation.  What  a  thing  it  is  to  be  out 
of  pain  when  you  have  been  suffering,  and  out 
of  anxiety  when  you  have  been  racked  with  that 
torture!  Margaret  leaned  back  in  the  corner, 
feeling  the  relief  to  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 
And  it  was  a  beautiful  day,  the  country  still  all 
bright  with  the  green  of  the  early  summer. 
When  they  had  got  a  little  way  out  of  town,  the 
faint  little  shade  of  disappointment  in  Miss  Les- 
lie's mind  over  lost  shopping  and  relinquished 
operas  gave  way  to  a  sense  of  unusual  exhilara- 
tion in  being  her  own  mistress,  and  even  more 
than  that,  having  an  important  trust  in  her 
hands. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "dearest  Margaret,  I 
think  it  will  be  very  nice  to  get  back  to  the  coun- 
try, though  dear  Jean  always  says  a  week  or  two 
in  town  is  very  reviving  at  this  time  of  the  year; 
but  you  must  not  think  I  am  unhappy  about 
coming  away,  for  I  really  do  not  mind  it  much — 
nothing  at  all  to  speak  of.  I  shall  always  say 
it  was  a  great  attention  on  the  part  of  Randal 
Burnside,  and  I  am  sure  dear  Jean  wiil  feel  it. 
But  how  could  he  think  we  should  want  him,  or 
anything  he  could  do  for  us,  when  dear  Jean  is 
in  town  ?  Did  you  hear  him,  give  me  his  ad- 
dress, dearest  Margaret  ?  He  said  he  would  be 
at  the  Wrangham  for  ten  days  more.  My  word, 
but  that  must  cost  him  a  pretty  penny!  The 
Burnsides  must  be  very  well  off,  when  Randal 
can  afford  to  live  at  the  Wrangham,  for  it  cannot 
be  expected  that  he  can  be  getting  much  by  his 
profession  yet.  We  once  went  to  the  Wrang- 
ham ourselves,  but  it  was  too  expensive.  I  think 
you  never  go  there  without  finding  some  Fife 
person  or  other.  I  wonder  how  they  have  got 
their  Fife  connection.  But  it  amuses  me  to 
think  that  Randal  Burnside  should  give  us  his 
address." 

Margaret  listened  to  this  monologue  witli  but 
slight  attention  ;  neither  did  she  attach  any  im- 
portance to  Randal's  parting  words.  She  was 
languid  in  the  great  relief  of  her  mind,  and  quite 
content  to  rest  in  her  corner,  and  listen  to  Grace's 
soft  ripple  of  talk,  which  flowed  only  with  a  ful- 
ness most  delightful  to  herself,  the  speaker,  who 
had  not  for  many  a  long  day  had  such  an  op- 
portunity of  expressing,  uninterrupted,  her  gen- 
tle sentiments.  She  was  pleased  with  her  com- 
panion, who  neither  interrupted,  nor  contradict- 
ed, nor  did  anything  but  contribute  a  monosylla- 
ble now  and  then,  such  as  was  necessary  to  car- 
rv  on  what  Grace  called  the  conversation.     The 


154 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


Grange  was  as  bright  and  sweet  to  the  eyes  when 
they  got  there,  as  it  had  been  dark  and  melan- 
choly on  their  first  arrival.  Everything  was  be- 
ginning to  bloom — the  early  roses  on  the  walls, 
the  starry  blossoms  of  the  little  mountain  clem- 
atis threading  along  the  old  dark-red  wall,  the 
honeysuckle  preparing  its  big  blooms,  and  the 
garden  borders  gay  with  flowers. 

Miss  Parker  met  them  smiling  upon  the  steps, 
and  all  the  servants  of  the  household,  which  Jean 
had  organized  liberally,  courtesying  behind  her, 
while  Eland,  as  affable  as  his  name,  with  his  own 
hands  opened  the  carriage  door.  And  to  be 
consulted  about  everything  was  very  delightful 
to  Miss  Leslie.  She  seized  the  opportunity  to 
make  a  few  little  changes  in  the  garden,  which 
she  had  long  set  her  heart  upon,  and  even  cor- 
rected one  or  two  things  in-doors,  which  she  had 
not  ventured  to  touch  before.  And  she  wrote 
to  dearest  Jean  that  Miss  Parker  was  very  kind, 
and  studied  their  comfort  in  every  way,  and  that 
Cook  was  behaving  very  well  indeed,  and  Bland 
was  most  attentive.  All  her  report  was  thor- 
oughly satisfactory ;  and  she  could  not  help  ex- 
pressing a  hope  that  dearest  Jean  would  not  hur- 
ry, but  would  enjoy  herself.  And  Miss  Leslie 
found  Margaret  a  very  pleasant  companion,  giv- 
ing "no  trouble,"  and  ready  to  listen  for  the 
whole  da}',  if  her  sister  pleased,  and  Grace  was 
very  well  pleased  to  go  on.  She  was  very  well 
pleased,  too,  to  go  on  in  her  viceroyalty,  and 
very  liberal  to  the  old  women  in  the  cottages, 
where  Margaret  and  she  paid  a  great  many 
kindly  visits.  And,  in  short,  Miss  Leslie's  feel- 
ings were  of  the  most  comfortable  kind,  and  her 
rule,  though  probably  it  would  have  been  much 
less  successful  in  the  long-run,  and  consequently 
less  popular,  was  for  a  time,  to  all  the  depend- 
ants who  were  permitted  to  have  their  own  way, 
a  very  delightful  sway  in  comparison  with  that 
of  her  sister ;  and  it  was  very  pleasant  to  herself 
to  be  looked  up  to,  more  or  less,  instead  of  being 
looked  down  upon. 

"I  was  always  fond  of  you,  dearest  Margaret, 
but  I  never  did  you  full  justice  till  now,"  she 
said,  half  crying,  as  it  was  so  natural  for  her  to 
do  when  she  was  moved  either  happily  or  other- 
wise. Dear  Jean,  no  doubt,  was  a  great  loss  ;  but 
then  dear  Jean  was  enjoying  herself  too.  Thus 
the  beginning  of  this  exile  and  retreat  was  very 
pleasant  to  both  the  ladies ;  and  Margaret,  with 
her  expanded  being,  took  real  possession — with 
a  sense  of  security  and  calm  which  sank  into  her 
heart  like  a  benediction — of  her  own  house. 

On  the  third  day  after  their  arrival  she  had 
gone  out  into  the  park  alone.  It  was  the  after- 
noon, and  very  bright  and  warm  —  too  warm, 
Grace  thought,  for  walking;  but  Margaret,  in 
all  the  ardor  of  her  young  strength,  four.d  noth- 
ing too  cold  or  too  hot.  She  strayed  across  the 
park  in  the  full  sunshine :  her  broad  straw  hat 
was  shade  enough,  and  the  long,  black  gauze 
veil,  which  Jean  still  insisted  upon,  hung  floating 
behind  her.  Her  dress,  though  black,  was  thin 
and  light.  She  had  recovered  all  the  soft  splen- 
dor of  health,  though  in  Margaret  it  could 
scarcely  be  called  bloom  or  glow.  A  faint  rose- 
tint  like  the  flowers,  as  delicate  and  as  sweet, 
was  on  her  cheek  going  and  coming  ;  she  had  a 
book  clasped  under  her  arm,  but  she  was  not  at 
all  sure  that  she  meant  to  read.  She  made  her 
way  through  the  blaze  of  the  sunshine,  defying 


it,  as  foolish  girls  do,  to  the  clump  of  trees  where 
she  had  rushed,  in  her  despair,  to  read  Rob 
Glen's  letter  on  the  wet  wintry  day  when  she 
had  caught  her  illness. 

Without  premeditation  she  had  started  for  this 
shelter ;  but  as  she  gained  the  shade  and  sat 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  great  elm,  the  whole 
scene  came  back  to  her.  Her  heart  woke,  and 
seemed  to  echo  the  frantic  beating  which  had 
been  in  it  then.  What  a  difference!  Winter 
then,  all  weeping  and  dreary ;  yellow  leaves 
scattered  on  the  grass,  naked  branches  waving 
in  the  dank  air,  against  the  mud-colored  clouds ; 
now  nothing  but  summer  —  the  grass  covered 
with  flickering  gleams  of  gold  and  soft  masses 
of  grateful  shade,  the  sky  so  blue  and  the  leaves 
so  green ;  and,  what  was  more  wonderful  still, 
her  heart  then  so  agitated  and  miserable,  now 
so  tranquil  and  calm.  Yes,  she  said  to  herself, 
with  a  little  tremor,  but  why  should  she  be  so 
tranquil  and  calm?  Nothing  was  changed; 
three  days  ago  she  had  dashed  through  the  Lon- 
don streets  in  the  same  frantic  flight  and  horror. 
Nothing  was  changed.  WThat  did  the  distance 
matter,  a  hundred  miles  or  a  thousand,  when  in 
fact  and  reality  everything  was  the  same?  And 
distance  could  not  settle  it  one  way  or  another : 
running  away  could  not  settle  it.  By  word  or 
by  letter,  must  she  not  make  up  her  mind  to  do 
it  —  absolutely  to  meet  the  difficulty  herself,  to 
confront  the  danger,  not  to  run  away? 

Her  book  dropped  down  upon  the  warm,  de- 
licious turf  beside  her.  In  any  case  this,  in  all 
likelihood,  would  have  been  its  fate ;  but  it  fell 
from  her  hand  now  with  a  kind  of  violence. 
Yes !  it  must  be  settled — not  by  running  away — 
it  must  be  done  somehow,  beyond  all  chance  of 
undoing.  Margaret  was  a  child  no  longer :  she 
had  learned  at  least  the  rudiments  of  that  great 
lesson  ;  she  had  found  that  those  evils  which  we 
have  brought  on  ourselves  cannot  be  undone  by 
chance  or  good-fortune.  If  she  was  to  reclaim 
herself,  it  must  be  by  a  conscious  struggle  and 
effort ;  and  how  was  it  possible  that  she  could 
encounter  this  boldly,  forestall  the  next  danger, 
go  out  to  meet  the  trouble  ?  If  he  would  but 
leave  her  alone,  it  would  not  matter  so  much. 
She  thought  she  could  thrust  it  away  from  her 
and  be  happy — too  grateful  to  let  the  days  drift 
by,  to  enjoy  her  life  till  the  inevitable  moment 
when  the  long -dreaded  fate  must  come;  and 
then —  ? 

Margaret's  heart  began  once  more  to  sing  wild- 
ly in  her  ears.  Then !  What  was  it  she  must 
do  ?  She  was  not  as  she  had  been  a  year  ago, 
when  nothing  but  a  frightened  acquiescence, 
compulsion  yet  submission,  to  something  against 
which  there  seemed  no  possibility  of  effectual  re- 
sistance, a  dreadful  fate  which  she  must  make 
the  best  of  when  it  came,  seemed  before  her. 
Now  she  could  no  longer  contemplate  the  fut- 
ure so;  she  would  not  be  passive,  but  must  act, 
must  make  some  effort  for  her  own  emancipa- 
tion :  but  not  yet !  not  yet !  her  fluttering  heart 
seemed  to  say  :  though  something  sterner  in  her, 
something  stronger,  protested  and  held  another 
strain.  "If  'twere  done,  when  'tis  done,  then  it 
were  well  it  were  done  quickly."  If  a  struggle 
was  inevitable,  one  desperate  effort  must  be  made 
to  get  herself  free,  why  should  she  delay  and  suf- 
fer so  many  agonies  in  the  mean  time  ? 

A  flutter  of  daring,  a  sinking  of  despair,  com- 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


1; 


bated  in  her :  and  then  arose  the  horrible  ques- 
tion—  If  she  did  summon  courage  enough  to 
parley  with  her  fate  and  ask  for  her  freedom, 
would  he  grant  it  ?  She  had  not  come  so  far  as 
to  think  anything  was  possible  without  his  con- 
sent. Would  he  let  her  go  free?  If  she  could 
but  dare  to  tell  him  that  she  did  not  love  him, 
that  it  was  all  a  mistake,  would  he  believe  her, 
and  be  persuaded,  and  let  her  go  ?  Awful  ques- 
tion to  which  it  was  impossible  to  give  an  answer. 
Margaret  felt  like  a  criminal  dependent  on  the 
clemency  of  a  monarch,  before  whom  she  could 
only  kneel,  and  weep,  and  pray.  Would  he 
hear  her?  Would  he  waive  his  claims  —  the 
claims  which  she  could  not  deny — and  let  her  go 
free? 

When  she  was  in  the  midst  of  these  thoughts, 
too  much  engrossed  to  heed  what  might  be  go- 
ing on  round  her,  and  secure  that  here  nothing 
could  be  going  on,  the  creaking  of  a  branch,  as 
under  a  footstep,  caught  Margaret's  ear.  She 
looked  up,  but  saw  nothing  to  alarm  her,  and 
with  that  curious  deliverance  from  all  fears  or 
suspicions,  and  simplicity  of  trust  which  is  apt 
to  precede  a  catastrophe,  returned  to  her  fancies 
and  questions  and  took  no  further  notice.  What 
harm  could  come  near  her  there?  She  was  in 
the  middle  of  the  park,  in  an  island  of  shade  in 
the  midst  of  the  blaze  of  sunshine,  out  of  sight 
of  the  house,  out  of  reach  of  the  gate,  a  place 
shut  up  and  sacred,  where  no  one  interfered  with 
the  freedom  of  the  young  mistress  of  all.  It 
might  be  a  squirrel,  it  might  be  a  rabbit ;  what 
could  it  be  else  ?  She  did  not  even  go  so  far  as 
to  ask  herself  what  it  was ;  there  was  not  the 
break  of  a  moment  in  her  thoughts.  Would  he 
let  her  free?  Her  word  was  pledged  to  him. 
How  could  she  release  herself  from  that  solemn 
promise?  He  was  her  master  by  reason  of  this 
pledge.  Would  he  be  merciful  ?  would  he  have 
pity  upon  her  ?  would  he  set  her  free  ? 

What  was  that?  A  voice:  "Margaret!"' 
She  seemed  to  hear  it  somehow  before  it  really 
sounded,  so  that  when  the  word  was  uttered  it 
felt  like  a  repetition.  She  looked  up  with  a 
sudden  cry.  The  voice  was  close  over  her  head, 
and  the  very  air  seemed  to  tremble  with  it — re- 
peating it,  "Margaret !"  She  sprang  to  her  feet 
with  a  wild  impulse  of  flight,  requiring  no  second 
glance,  no  second  hearing,  to  tell  her  that  the 
moment  of  fate  had  come.  She  had  even  made 
one  hurrying,  flying  step,  with  terror  in  her  looks, 
her  throat  suddenly  dry  and  gasping,  her  strength 
and  courage  gone.  Was  it  he?  what  was  it  that 
caught  at  her  dress?  She  darted  away  in  ter- 
ror indescribable;  but  just  as  she  did  so  all  the 
desperation  of  her  case  flashed  upon  Margaret. 
She  stopped,  and,  turning  round,  looked  him  in 
the  face. 

There  he  stood  looking  at  her,  leaning  against 
the  tree,  holding  out  his  hands — "Margaret!" 
he  cried.  His  face  was  all  glowing  and  mov- 
ing with  emotion  —  unquestionably  with  genu- 
ine emotion.  No  cheat  ever  got  by  guile  such 
an  expression  into  his  lying  face.  Rob  was  not 
lying.  There  was  great  emotion  in  his  mind. 
He  who  could  not  look  at  a  girl  without  trying 
to  please  her  felt  his  first  glance  at  Margaret 
reillumine  all  the  first  fire  of  loving  in  his  heart. 
He  had  never  seen  her  look  half  so  beautiful. 
The  health  that  was  in  her  cheeks,  the  develop- 
ment that  had  come  to  her  whole  being,  all  tend- 


ed to  make  her  fairer ;  and  even  the  improve- 
ment of  her  dress  under  her  sister's  careful  su- 
pervision increased  her  charm  to  Rob.  He  was 
keenly  alive  to  all  those  signs  of  ladyhood  which 
separated  Margaret  from  his  own  sphere,  and 
which  proved  not  only  her  superiority,  but  his 
who  loved  her.  She  shone  upon  him  like  a  new 
revelation  of  beauty  and  grace,  tempting  in  her- 
self— irresistible  in  that  she  was  so  much  above 
him.  But  if  she  had  not  been  at  all  above  him, 
Rob  still  would  not  have  let  her  go  without  the 
most  strenuous  effort  to  retain  her.  His  face 
shone  with  the  very  enthusiasm  of  admiration 
and  happiness.  "Margaret!  my  beautiful  dar- 
ling!" he  cried;  and  he  held  out  his  hands,  in- 
viting, wooing  her  to  him.  "Do  not  be  afraid 
of  me,"  he  said,  with  real  pathos  in  his  voice. 
"Margaret!  I  will  not  come  a  step  nearer  till 
you  give  me  leave — to  look  at  you  seems  happi- 
ness enough." 

Oh,  what  a  reproach  that  look  was  to  the 
poor  girl,  who,  frightened  and  desperate,  had 
yet  intelligence  enough  left  to  see  that  there  was 
no  safety  in  flight !  Happiness  enough  to  look 
at  her!  while  she — she,  ungrateful — she,  hard- 
hearted, shrunk  from  the  sight  of  him!  She 
could  not  bear  the  delight  and  the  petition  in 
his  eyes.  Instead  of  being  a  supplicant  to  him 
for  her  freedom,  it  was  he  who,  for  his  happi- 
ness, was  a  supplicant  to  her. 

"Oh,  do  not  speak  so,"  she  said,  wringing  her 
hands ;  "  do  not  speak  so  well  of  me — 1  do  not 
deserve  it.     Oh,  why  have  you  come  here?" 

"Why  should  I  have  come?  To  see  you, 
my  only  love.  How  do  you  suppose  I  could 
keep  away  from  you  ?  Margaret,  do  you  think 
I  am  made  of  stone  ?  do  you  think  I  only  pre- 
tend to  love  you?  You  did  not  think  so  once 
at  EaiTs-hall,"  he  said,  coming  very  softly  a  step 
nearer  to  her.  His  look  was  wistful,  his  voice 
so  soft  that  Margaret's  heart  was  pierced  with  a 
thousand  compunctions.  She  shrank,  without 
venturing  to  step  farther  back,  bending  her  pli- 
ant, slight  young  figure  away  from  him ;  and 
thus  he  got  her  hand  before  she  was  aware. 
Margaret  shrank  still  farther  from  his  touch, 
her  whole  frame  contracting;  but  the  instinct 
of  constancy  and  the  sense  of  guilt  were  too 
much  for  her.  She  could  not  withdraw  her 
hand. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Glen,"  she  said  —  "oh,  Rob,"  for 
he  gave  her  a  startled  look  of  wonder  and  pain, 
"what  can  I  say  to  you?  I  do  not  want  to  be 
unkind,  and  oh,  I  hope — I  hope  you  don't  care 
so  much,  not  so  very  much!  Oh,"  she  cried, 
breaking  out  suddenly  into  the  appeal  she  had 
premeditated,  "don't  you  think  we  have  made  a 
mistake — a  great  mistake?" 

"  What  mistake,  Margaret  ?  Is  it  because 
you  are  so  much  richer  than  we  ever  thought, 
and  I  so  poor?  Yes,  it  was  a  mistake.  I  had 
no  right  to  lift  my  hopes  so  high.  But  do  you 
think  I  remembered  that  ?  It  was  you  I  was 
thinking  of — not  what  you  had!" 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  have?"  she 
said,  sadly.  "Do  you  think  that  was  what  / 
was  thinking  of?  Rich  or  poor,  has  that  any- 
thing to  do  with  it  ?  But  oh,  it  is  true — I  can- 
not help  it — we  have  made  a  mistake." 

"I  have  made  no  mistake,"  he  said;  "I 
thought  you  the  sweetest  and  the  fairest  creat- 
ure that  ever  crossed  my  path,  aud  so  you  are» 


156 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


And  I  loved  you,  Margaret,  and  so  I  do  now. 
A  king  could  not  do  more.  I  have  not  made 
any  mistake." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  with  a  shiver  of  desperation 
running  through  her,  drawing  her  hand  from  his, 
"you  may  scorn  me,  you  may  despise  me,  but  I 
must  say  it.  It  is  I,  then.  Oh,  Rob,  do  not  be 
angry !  You  have  been  kind,  very  kind,  as  good 
as  an  angel  to  me ;  but  I — I  am  ungrateful,  I 
have  no  heart.  I  cannot,  cannot — "  Here  Mar- 
garet, entirely  overcome,  broke  forth  into  sudden 
weeping,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Then  he  took  the  step  too  far,  which  was  all 
that  was  wanted.  How  could  he  tell  it  was  too 
far?  He  would  have  done  it  had  she  been  no 
beautiful  lady  at  all,  but  a  country  girl  who  had 
been  once  fond  of  him,  whom  he  could  not  allow 
to  escape.  He  put  his  arm  tenderly  round  her, 
and  tried  to  draw  her  toward  him. 

Margaret  sprang  from  his  side  with  a  quick 
cry,  putting  him  away  with  her  hands.  "Oh 
no,  no,  no!"  she  cried,  "that  cannot  be,  that 
can  never  be!  Do  not  touch  me;  do  not  come 
near  me,  Mr.  Glen  !" 

"Margaret!"  his  tone  was  full  of  astonish- 
ment and  pain  ;  "  what  does  this  mean  ?  It  seems 
like  a  bad  dream.  It  cannot  be  you  that  are 
speaking  to  me." 

And  then  there  was  a  pause.  She  could  say 
nothing,  her  very  breathing  was  choked  by  the 
struggling  sobs.  Oh,  how  cruel  she  was,  how 
barbarous,  how  guilty !  And  he  so  tender,  so 
struck  with  wonder  and  dismay,  gazing  at  her 
with  eyes  full  of  surprise  and  sudden  misery! 
Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  bear  anything, 
to  put  up  with  anything,  rather  than  inflict  such 
cruel  pain  ? 

It  was  Rob  who  was  the  first  to  speak.  There 
was  no  make-believe  in  him ;  it  was  indeed  cruel 
pain,  bitter  to  his  heart  and  to  his  self-love.  He 
was  mortified  and  wounded  beyond  measure.  He 
could  not  understand  how  he  could  be  repulsed 
so.  "  If  this  is  true,"  he  said,  "  if  it  is  not  some 
nightmare — if  I  am  not  dreaming — what  is  to 
become  of  me  ?  My  God  !  the  girl  I  love,  with- 
out whom  I  don't  care  for  my  life,  my  betrothed, 
my  wife  that  was  to  be,  tells  me  not  to  come  near 
her,  not  to  touch  her !  What  does  it  mean — what 
does  it  mean,  Margaret  ?  You  have  been  hear- 
ing something  of  me  that  is  false,  some  slander, 
some  ill  stories — " 

"No,  no!  oh  no,  no!  not  that,  not  a  word." 

"  Then, what  is  it,  Margaret  ?  If  you  have  any 
pity,  tell  me  what  it  is.  I  have  done  something 
to  displease  you.  I  have  offended  you,  though 
Heaven  knows  I  would  sooner  offend  the  whole 
world." 

"  It  is  not  that:  oh,  can  you  not  understand, 
will  you  not  understand  ?  I  was  so  young.  I 
did  not  know  what  it  meant.  Oh,  forgive  me, 
Mr.  Glen.  It  is  not  that  I  want  to  be  unkind. 
My  heart  is  broken  too.  I  was  never — oh,  how 
can  I  say  it  ? — I  was  never — never — but  do  not  be 
angry! — never  so — fond  of  you  as  you  thought." 

She  raised  Iter  eyes  to  him  as  the  dreadful 
truth  was  said,  with  the  awed  and  troubled  gaze 
of  a  child,  not  knowing  what  horror  of  suffering 
she  might  see,  or  what  denunciation  might  blast 
her  where  she  stood.  But  Margaret  was  not 
prepared  for  something  which  was  much  more 
difficult  to  encounter.  He  listened  to  her,  and 
a  smile  came  over  his  face. 


"My  darling," he  said,  softly,  "never  mind; 
I  have  love  enough  for  the  two  of  us.  We  have 
been  parted  for  a  long  time,  and  you  have  for- 
gotten what  you  thought  once.  1  think  I  know 
better,  dear,  than  you.  I  was  content,  and  so 
shall  I  be  again,  and  quite  happy  when  all  these 
cobwebs  are  blown  away.  I  will  take  my  chance 
that  you  will  be  fond  of  me,"  he  said. 

This  was  a  turn  of  the  tables  for  which  she 
was  absolutely  unprepared.  She  could  do  noth- 
ing but  gaze  at  him  blankly,  not  finding  a  single 
word  to  reply. 

"And  you  shall  be  humored,  my  darling,"  he 
said.  "I  am  not  such  a  clown  as  you  think. 
Do  you  suppose  I  don't  understand  your  delica- 
cy, your  shyness,  my  Lady  Margaret  ?  Oh,  I  am 
not  such  a  clown  as  you  think.  I  will  wait  till 
you  give  me  that  dear  little  hand  again.  I  will 
be  patient  till  you  come  to  my  arms  again.  Oh 
no,  I  will  not  hurry  you,  darling.  I  will  wait 
for  you;  but  you  must  not  ask  me,"  he  cried, 
"you  must  not  expect  me,  to  give  up  my  be- 
trothed wife." 

"  Dearest  Margaret,"  said  another  voice  behind, 
which  made  Margaret  start,  "I  have  been  look- 
ing for  you  everywhere.  Here  is  a  letter  from 
dearest  Jean,  saying  that  dear  Ludovic  is  in 
town,  and  that  she  will  bring  him  with  her  when 
she  comes.  Is  this  gentleman  a  friend  of  yours, 
darling  Margaret?  You  must  introduce  him  to 
me,"  Miss  Grace  said. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Miss  Leslie  was  hospitality  itself.  This  na- 
tional virtue  belonged  to  all  the  Leslies,  even 
when  they  had  little  means  of  exercising  it ;  and 
it  was  intensified  in  Grace's  case  by  the  fact  that 
she  had  so  seldom  any  power  of  independent  ac- 
tion. She  was  like  a  school-girl  suddenly  placed 
at  the  head  of  a  household,  and  made  absolute 
mistress  in  a  place  where  hitherto  even  her  per- 
sonal freedom  had  been  limited.  And  the  pleas- 
ure of  making  a  new  acquaintance  was  doubled 
by  the  consciousness  that  there  was  no  brisk  ruler 
behind  her  to  limit  her  kindness  to  the  stranger. 
She  insisted  that  he  should  come  to  dinner  that 
evening,  since  she  heard  that  he  was  staying  in 
the  village.  "Of  course  dear  Margaret  will  like 
to  be  able  to  talk  to  you  about  home,"  she  said. 
It  was  not  often  that  she  had  the  opportunity  of 
entertaining  any  one ;  and  though  Rob,  to  do 
him  justice,  hesitated  for  a  moment,  feeling  that 
his  acceptance  of  the  unlooked-for  opportunity 
should  depend  upon  Margaret,  still  it  was  scarce- 
ly to  be  expected  that  he  could  refuse  an  invita- 
tion so  manifestly  advantageous  to  him.  Mar- 
garet said  nothing.  She  would  not  reply  to  his 
look.  She  gave  Grace  a  glance"  of  mingled  hor- 
ror and  entreaty ;  but  Grace  scarcely  noticed 
this,  and  did  not  understand  it.  Margaret  walk- 
ed silently  by  their  side  to  the  house,  as  if  in  a 
dream.  She  heard  them  talk,  the  voices  com- 
ing to  her  as  through  a  mist  of  excitement  and 
pain;  but  what  could  she  do?  When  Grace 
suggested  that  she  should  show  Mr.  Glen  the 
house,  she  shrank  away  and  declared  that  she 
was  tired,  and  was  going  to  her  room  to  rest; 
but  the  only  result  of  her  defection  was,  that 
Grace  herself  took  the  part  of  cicerone,  and  that 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


15? 


Margaret,  shutting  herself  up  in  her  room,  heard 
them  going  up  and  down  stairs,  Grace's  voice 
leading  the  way,  as  Mrs.  Belli ilgbam'fl  had  done 
on  the  first  night  of  their  arrival. 

' '  Dearest  Margaret,  do  you  know  you  are  al- 
most rude  to  Mr.  Glen  ?"  her  sister  said,  before 
dinner;  "and  such  a  pleasant  young  man,  and 
so  clever  and  so  agreeable.  I  am  sure  dear  Jean 
will  think  him  quite  an  acquisition." 

"  I  hate  him!"  cried  Margaret,  with  the  fervor 
of  despair.  When  she  heard  the  words  which 
she  had  uttered  in  her  impatience,  a  chill  of  hor- 
ror came  over  her.  Was  it  true  that  she  hated 
him,  to  whom  she  was  bound  by  her  promise, 
who  loved  her  and  expected  her  to  love  him  ? 
She  went  away  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
pretending  to  look  for  something,  and  shed  a  few 
hot  and  bitter  tears.  It  was  horrible,  but  in  the 
passion  of  the  moment  it  seemed  true.  What 
was  she  to  do  to  deliver  herself? 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him,"  she  said,  coming 
back,  "and  Jean  would  not  like  to  have  him 
here :  I  know  she  would  not  like  to  have  him 
here." 

"You  will  forgive  me,  darling  Margaret,"  said 
Miss  Leslie,  "but  I  think  I  know  what  dear  Jean 
would  like :  she  would  not  neglect  a  stranger. 
She  is  always  very  kind  to  strangers.  How  do 
you  do  again,  Mr.  Glen  ?" 

And  the  evening  that  followed  was  dreadful 
to  Margaret.  Grace,  who  liked  to  study  what 
her  companions  would  like,  made  a  great  many 
little  efforts  to  bring  these  two  together.  "  They 
will  like  to  have  a  little  talk,"  she  said,  running 
up-stairs  to  consult  Miss  Parker  about  something 
imaginary.  "They  are  old  friends,  and  they 
will  like  to  have  a  little  talk." 

Margaret,  thus  left  alone  with  Rob,  grew  des- 
perate. She  turned  to  him  with  a  pale  face  and 
flashing  eyes,  taking  the  initiative  for  the  first 
time. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  come?"  she  cried;  "do 
you  think  it  is  like  a  man  to  drive  a  poor  girl 
wild — when  I  told  you  that  I  wanted  you  to  go 
away?  that  it  was  all  a  mistake — all  a  mistake !" 

"  It  was  no  mistake  so  far  as  I  am  concerned," 
he  said.  "Margaret,  you  have  given  me  your 
hand  and  your  promise ;  how  can  you  be  so  cruel 
as  to  deny  me  your  heart  now  ?" 

"I  did  not  give  you  anything;  I  was  dis- 
tracted. I  did  not  know  what  you  were  saying," 
she  said  ;  "  I  did  not  give  you  anything.  What- 
ever there  was,  you  took.  It  was  not  I — it  was 
not  I!" 

"Margaret,  my  darling!"  he  said,  coming 
close  to  her,  "  you  cannot  mean  to  be  so  unkind. 
Do  not  let  us  spend  all  these  precious  moments 
in  quarrelling.  Will  you  let  me  tell  her  when 
she  comes  back  ?" 

Margaret's  voice  seemed  to  fail  in  her  throat, 
and  a  wild  panic  came  into  her  eyes.  She  was 
afraid  of  his  vicinity;  she  could  not  bear  any  ap- 
pearance of  intimacy,  any  betrayal  of  their  pre- 
vious relations.  And  just  then  Miss  Grace  came 
back,  profuse  in  apologies. 

"I  had  something  to  say  to  the  house-keeper, 
Mr.  Glen.  I  thought  that  dear  Margaret,  as  an 
old  friend,  would  be  able  to  entertain  you  for  a 
little  while,  for  I  heard  you  were  old  friends." 

"From  our  cradles,  I  think,"  said  Rob,  sig- 
nificantly. "Miss  Margaret  used  to  go  fishing 
with  me  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  she  a  tiny  little 


fairy,  whom  I  thought  the  most  wonderful  creat- 
ure on  earth.  There  are  traditions  of  childhood 
to  which  one  holds  all  one's  life." 

"Ah!"  said  Grace,  "childish  friendships  are 
very  sweet.  At  dear  Margaret's  age  they  are 
sometimes  not  so  much  appreciated  ;  but  as  one 
grows  older,  one  understands  the  value  of  them. 
Are  you  going  to  stay  for  some  time  in  our  vil- 
lage, Mr.  Glen  ?  Ancl  are  you  making  some 
pretty  sketches?  That  was  beautiful,  that  one 
of  Earl's-hall,  that  you  sent  to  dear  Margaret. 
Dearest  Jean  was  so  much  struck  by  it.  I  am 
sure  it  is  a  great  gift  to  bo  able  to  give  so  much 
pleasure." 

"I  will  make  a  companion  sketch  of  the 
Grange  for  you,  if  you  would  like  it,"  said  Rob; 
"  nothing  would  give  me  more  pleasure.  It  is  a 
beautiful  old  house." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Glen!  But  you  are  a  great  deal 
too  good — much  too  good !  And  how  could  I 
ever  repay — how  could  I  ever  thank  you  !" 

Margaret  rushed  from  the  room  while  these 
compliments  were  being  exchanged.  It  seemed 
to  her  like  a  scene  from  some  old  play  which  she 
had  seen  played  before,  save  that  the  interest 
was  too  sharp  and  intense,  too  close  to  herself, 
for  any. play.  She  felt  herself  insulted  and  de- 
fied, provoked  and  wounded.  What  did  he  care 
for  her  or  her  feelings  ?  Had  he  felt  the  least 
real  consideration  for  her,  he  could  not  have 
done  it.  She  rushed  up  the  half-lighted  stairs 
to  her  room,  with  passion  throbbing  in  her  heart. 
Oh,  that  Jean  were  here  to  send  him  away ! 
though  there  was,  in  reality,  nobody  whom  Mar- 
garet was  more  alarmed  for  than  Jean.  Oh, 
that  there  was  some  one  whom  she  could  trust 
in — whom  she  might  dare  to  speak  to !  But  to 
whom  could  she  speak  ?  If  she  did  betray  this 
secret,  would  not  she  be  thought  badly  of,  as  of 
a  girl  who  was  not  a  good  girl  ?  How  well  she 
remembered  the  sense  of  humiliation  w-hich  had 
come  over  her  when  Randal  Burnside  took  no 
notice  of  her  presence,  and  did  not  even  take 
off  his  hat!  Randal  Burnside!  The  name 
seemed  to  go  through  and  through  her,  tingling 
in  every  vein.  Ah  !  was  it  because  of  this  that 
he  had"  looked  at  her  so  wistfully,  when  he  put 
her  into  the  railway- carriage,  to  warn  her  per- 
haps of  what  was  coming?  Could  it  be  for 
this  that  he  had  told  Grace  where  he  was  to  be 
found  ? 

The  breath  seemed  to  stop  on  Margaret's  lips 
when  this  idea  occurred  to  her.  She  had  ap- 
pealed to  Randal  before,  in  her  despair,  and  Ran- 
dal had  helped  her ;  should  she  appeal  to  him 
again?  There  was  a  moment's  confusion  in  her 
brain,  everything  going  round  with  her,  a  sound 
of  ringing  "in  her  ears.  What  right  had  she  to 
call  upon  Randal  ?  But  yet  she  knew  that  Ran- 
dal would  reply  to  her  appeal ;  he  would  do 
what  he  could"  for  her ;  he  would  not  betray, 
and,  above  all,  he  would  not  blame  her.  That 
was  a  great  deal  to  say,  but  it  was  true.  Per- 
haps (she  thought)  he  would  be  more  sorry  than 
any  one  else  in  the  world ;  but  he  would  not 
blame  her.  The  only  other  person  who  knew 
was  Ludovic  ;  but  to  Ludovic  she  dared  not  ap- 
peal. He  would  think  it  was  all  her  own  fault ; 
but  Randal  would  not  think  it  was  her  fault. 
He  would  understand.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
undecided,  feeling  that  she  must  do  something  at 
once,  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose ;  and  then 


158 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


she  made  a  sudden  dash  at  her  writing  -  table, 
scattering  the  papers  on  it,  in  her  confusion. 
(She  must  not  think  any  longer ;  she  must  do 
something,  whatever  it  might  be.  And  how 
could  she  write  an  ordinary  letter  in  such  a  cri- 
sis, with  an  ordinary  beginning  and  ending,  as 
if  there  was  nothing  in  it  out  of  the  common  ? 
She  plunged  at  it,  putting  nothing  but  what  she 
was  obliged  to  say. 

"He  has  come  here,  and  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  Oh,  could  you  get  him  to  leave  me  in 
peace,  as  you  did  before  ?  I  have  no  right  to 
trouble  you ;  but  if  you  have  any  power  over 
him,  oh,  will  you  help  me?  will  you  get  him  to 
go  away  ?  I  know  I  ought  not  to  write  to  you 
about  this;  but  I  am  very  unhappy,  and  who 
can  I  go  to  ?  Oh,  Randal,  if  you  have  any  pow- 
er over  him,  get  him  to  go  away !" 

At  first  she  did  not  sign  this  at  all  ;  then  she 
reflected  that  he  might  not  know  her  handwrit- 
ing, though  she  knew  his.  And  then  she  signed 
it  timidly  with  an  M.  L.  But  perhaps  he  might 
not  know  who  M.  L.  was ;  other  names  began 
with  the  same  letters.  At  last  she  wrote,  very 
tremulously,  her  whole  name,  the  Leslie  dying 
into  illegibility.  She  did  not,  however,  think  it 
necessary  to  carry  this  herself  to  the  post-office, 
as  she  had  done  the  letter  to  Bell.  Grace  was 
not  so  alarming  as  Jean,  and  the  post-bag  was 
safe  enough,  she  felt.  When  she  had  thus 
stretched  out  her  hand  for  help,  Margaret  was 
guilty  of  the  first  act  of  positive  rebellion  she  had 
ever  ventured  upon.  She  refused  to  go  down- 
stairs. The  maid  who  took  her  message  said, 
apologetically,  that  she  had  a  headache ;  but 
Margaret  herself  made  no  such  pretence.  She 
could  not  keep  up  any  fiction  of  gentle  disability 
when  the  crisis  was  coming  so  near.  And  though 
she  so  shrank  from  confiding  her  griefs  to  any 
one,  the  girl,  in  her  desperation,  felt  that  the 
moment  was  coming  in  which,  if  need  were,  she 
would  have  strength  to  defy  all  the  world. 

All  was  dark  in  Margaret's  room,  when  Grace, 
having  parted  from  her  visitor,  who  had  done 
his  very  best  to  be  amusing,  notwithstanding  the 
unsatisfactory  circumstances,  came  softly  into 
her  little  sister's  room  and  bent  over  the  bed. 

"Poor  darling!"  Miss  Leslie  said,  "  how  pro- 
voking, just  when  your  old  friend  was  here.  But 
he  is  coming  again,  dearest  Margaret,  to-mor- 
row, to  begin  his  sketch.  How  nice  of  him  to 
offer  to  make  a  sketch — and  for  me!  I  never 
knew  anything  so  kind ;  for  he  scarcely  knows 
me." 

Thus  fate  made  another  coil  round  her  help- 
less feet. 

As  for  Rob,  he  went  back  to  the  inn  in  the 
village  scarcely  less  disturbed  than  Margaret. 
He  had  come  to  a  new  chapter  in  his  history. 
Her  coldness,  her  manifest  terror  of  him,  her 
flight  from  the  room  in  which  he  was,  provoked 
him  to  the  utmost.  He  was  less  cast  down  than 
exasperated  by  her  desire  to  avoid  him.  He 
was  not  a  man,  he  said  to  himself,  from  whom 
girls  generally  desired  to  escape,  nor  was  he  one 
with  whom  they  could  play  fast  and  loose.  He 
had  not  been  used  to  failure.  Jeanie,  who  had 
a  hundred  times  more  reason  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  him  than  Margaret  could  have,  had  been 
won  over  by  his  pleading  even  at  the  last  mo- 


ment, and  was  waiting  now  in  London  for  the 
last  interview,  which  he  had  insisted  upon.  And 
did  Margaret  think  herself  so  much  better  than 
everybody  else  that  she  was  to  continue  to  fly 
from  him  ?  He  was  determined  to  subdue  her. 
She  should  not  cast  him  off  when  she  pleased,  or 
escape  from  her  word.  In  the  fervor  of  his  feel- 
ings he  forgot  even  his  own  horror  at  the  vulgar 
expedient  his  mother  had  contrived,  to  bind  the 
girl  more  effectually.  Even  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind. to  use,  if  need  were,  to  hold  as  a 
whip  over  her.  It  was  no  fault  of  his,  but  en- 
tirely her  own  fault,  if  he  was  thus  driven  to  use 
every  weapon  in  his  armory.  He  had  written  to 
his  mother  to  send  it  to  him  before  he  came  to 
the  village,  and  now  expected  it  every  day.  Per- 
haps to-morrow,  before  he  set  out  for  the  Grange, 
it  would  arrive,  and  Margaret  would  see  he  was 
not  to  be  trifled  with.  All  this  did  not  make 
him  cease  to  be  "in  love  with"  her.  He  was 
prepared  to  be  as  fond,  nay,  more  fond  than  ever, 
if  she  w»uld  but  respond  as  she  ought.  No  one 
had  ever  so  used  him  before,  and  he  would  not 
be  beaten  by  a  slip  of  a  girl.  If  he  could  not 
win  her  back  as  he  had  won  Jeanie,  then  he 
would  force  her  back.  She  should  not  beat  him. 
Thus  the  struggle  between  them,  which  had  been 
existing  passive  and  unacknowledged  for  some 
time  back,  had  to  his  consciousness,  as  well  as 
Margaret's,  come  to  a  crisis  now. 

Next  morning  she  kept  out  of  the  way,  re- 
maining in  her  own  room,  though  without  any 
pretence  of  illness.  Margaret  was  too  highly 
strung,  too  sensible  of  the  greatness  of  the  emer- 
gency, to  take  refuge  in  that  headache  which  is 
always  so  convenient  an  excuse  ;  she  would  not 
set  up  such  a  feeble  plea.  She  kept  up-stairs  in 
her  room  in  so  great  a  fever  of  mental  excite- 
ment that  she  seemed  to  hear  and  see  and  feel 
everything  that  happened,  notwithstanding  her 
withdrawal.  She  heard  him  arrive,  and  she 
heard  Grace's  twitterings  of  welcome;  and  then 
she  heard  the  voices  outside  again,  moving  about, 
and  divined  that  they  were  in  search  of  the  best 
point  of  view.  They  found  it  at  last,  in  sight  of 
Margaret's  window,  where  Rob  established  him- 
self and  all  his  paraphernalia  fully  in  her  view. 
It  was  for  this  reason,  indeed,  that  he  had  chosen 
the  spot,  meaning,  with  one  of  his  curious  fail- 
ures of  perception,  to  touch  her  heart  by  the  fa- 
miliar sight,  and  call  her  back  to  him  by  the  rec- 
ollection of  those  early  days  at  Earl's-hall. 

The  attempt  exasperated  her ;  it  was  like  the 
repetition  of  a  familiar  trick — the  sort  of  thing 
he  did  everywhere.  She  looked  out  from  behind 
the  curtain  with  dislike  and  annoyance  which 
increased  every  moment.  It  seemed  incredible 
to  her,  as  she  looked  out  upon  him,  how  she 
could  ever  have  regarded  him  as  she  knew  she 
had  once  done.  All  that  was  commonplace  in 
him,  lightly  veiled  by  his  cleverness,  his  skill,  his 
desire  to  please,  appeared  now  to  her  disenchant- 
ed eyes.  The  thought  that  he  should  ever  have 
addressed  her  in  the  tenderest  words  that  one 
human  creature  can  use  to  another;  that  he 
should  ever  have  held  her  close  to  him  and  kiss- 
ed her,  made  her  cheek  burn,  and  her  very  veins 
fill  and  swell  with  shame.  But,  notwithstand- 
ing all  her  reluctance,  she  had  to  go  down  to 
luncheon,  partly  compelled  by  circumstances, 
partly  by  the  strange  attraction  of  hostility,  and 
partly  by  the  distress  of  Grace  at  the  possibility 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


159 


of  having  to  take  her  lunch  "nlone  with  a  gen- 
tleman !"  Margaret  went  down;-  but  she  kept 
herself  aloof,  sitting  up  stately  and  silent,  all  un- 
like her  girlish  self,  at  the  table,  where  Miss  Les- 
lie did  the  honors  with  anxious  hospitality,  press- 
ing her  guest  to  eat,  and,  happily,  leaving  no 
room  for  any  words  but  her  own.  Grace,  how- 
ever, was  too  anxious  that  the  young  people 
should  enjoy  themselves,  not  to  perceive  how 
very  little  intercourse  there  was  between  them, 
and,  after  vain  attempts  to  induce  Margaret  to 
show  Mr.  Glen  the  wainscot  parlor,  she  adopted 
the  old  expedient  of  running  out  of  the  room  and 
leaving  them  together  as  soon  as  their  meal  was 
over. 

"I  must  just  speak  to  Bland,"  she  said,  hur- 
riedly, "I  shall  not  be  a  moment.  Margaret, 
you  will  take  care  of  Mr.  Glen  till  I  come  back." 

Margaret,  who  was  herself  in  the  very  act  of 
flight,  was  obliged  to  stay.  She  rose  from  her 
chair  and  stood  stiffly  by  it,  while  Grace  ran 
along  the  passage.  Her  heart  had  begun  to  beat 
so  loudly  that  she  could  scarcely  speak,  but  speak 
she  must ;  and  before  the  sound  of  her  sister's 
footsteps  had  died  out  of  hearing,  she  turned 
upon  the  companion  she  had  accepted  so  reluc- 
tantly, with  breathless  excitement. 

"Mr.  Glen,"  she  said,  trembling,  "I  must 
speak  to  you.  We  cannot  go  on  like  this.  Oh, 
why  will  you  not  go  away  ?  If  you  will  not  go 
away,  I  must.  I  will  not  see  you  again  ;  I  can- 
not, I  cannot  do  it.     For  God's  sake  go  away!" 

"  Why  should  you  be  so  urgent,  Margaret  ?" 
he  said.  "  What  harm  am  I  doing  ?  It  is  hard 
enough  to  consent  to  see  so  little  of  you ;  but 
even  a  little  is  better  than  nothing  at  all." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  in  her  desperation,  "do  not 
stop  to  argue  about  it.  Don't  you  see — but  you 
must  see — that  yon  are  making  me  miserable  ? 
If  there  is  anything  you  want,  tell  me ;  but  oh, 
do  not  stay  here !" 

.  "What  I  want  is  easily  enough  divined.  I 
want  you,  Margaret,"  he  said ;  "and  why  should 
you  turn  me  away  ?  Let  us  not  spend  the  little 
time  we  have  together  in  quarrelling.  You  are 
offended  about  something.  Somebody  has  been 
speaking  ill  of  me — " 

"No  one  has  been  speaking  ill  of  you,"  she 
cried,  indignantly.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Glen,  even  if  I 
liked  you  to  be  here,  it  would  be  dishonorable 
to  come  when  my  sister  Jean  was  away,  and  to 
impose  upon  poor  Grace,  who  knows  nothing, 
who  does  not  understand — " 

"Let  me  tell  her,"  he  said,  eagerly ;  "she 
will  be  a  friend  to  us ;  she  is  kind-hearted.  Let 
me  tell  her.  It  is  not  I  that  wish  for  conceal- 
ment ;  I  should  like  the  whole  world  to  know. 
I  will  go  and  tell  her — " 

"No!"  Margaret  cried,  almost  with  a  scream 
of  terror.  She  stopped  him  as  he  made  a  step 
toward  the  door.  "  What  would  you  tell  her,  or 
any  one  ? — that  I — care  for  you,  Mr.  Glen  ?  Oh, 
listen  to  me !  It  is  not  that  I  have  deceived  you, 
for  I  never  said  anything ;  I  only  let  you  speak — 
But  if  I  have  done  wrong,  I  am  very  sorry;  if 
you  told  her  that,  it  would  not  be  true !" 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  with  forced  calmness, 
"take  care  what  you  are  saying.  Do  you  for- 
get that  you  are  my  promised  wife?  Is  that 
nothing  to  tell  her  ?  Do  you  think  that  I  will 
let  you  break  your  vow  without  a  word.  There 
is  more  than  love  concerned,  more  than  caring 
11 


for  each  other,  as  you  call  it — there  is  our  whole 
life!" 

"Yes," she  said.  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whis- 
per, in  her  extreme  emotion ;  her  face  grew  pal- 
lid, as  if  she  were  going  to  faint.  She  clasped 
her  hands  together  and  looked  at  him  piteous- 
ly,  with  wide-open  eyes.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I 
know ;  I  promised,  and  I  am  false  to  it.  Oh, 
will  you  forgive  me,  and  let  me  go  free?  Oh, 
Mr.  Glen,  let  me  go  free!" 

"  Is  this  all  I  have  for  my  love?"  he  said,  with 
not  unnatural  exasperation.  "  Let  you  go  free  ! 
that  is  all  yon  care  for.  What  I  feel  is  nothrng 
to  you ;  my  hopes,  and  my  prospects,  and  my 
happiness — " 

Margaret  could  not  speak.  She  made  a  sup- 
plicating gesture  with  her  clasped  hands,  and 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  Rob  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  He  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  in  unfeigned  agitation  ;  outraged  pride  and 
disappointed  feeling,  and  an  impulse  which  was 
half  generosity  and  half  mortification  tempting 
him  on  one  side,  while  the  rage  of  failure  and 
the  force  of  self-interest  held  him  fast  on  the 
other.  He  could  not  give  up  so  much  without 
another  struggle.  He  made  a  hasty  step  toward 
her  and  caught  her  hands  in  his. 

"Margaret !"  he  cried,  "how  can  I  give  you 
up  ?  This  hand  is  mine,  and  I  will  not  let  it  go. 
Is  there  nothing  in  your  promise — nothing  in 
the  love  that  has  been  between  us?  Let  you 
go  free?  Is  that  all  the  question  that  remains 
between  you  and  me  ?" 

They  stood  thus,  making  a  mutual  appeal  to 
each  other,  he  holding  her  hand,  she  endeavor- 
ing to  draw  it  away,  when  the  sound  of  a  steady 
and  solemn  step  startled  them  suddenly. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,"  said  Bland,  at  the  door, 
"  there  is  a  gentleman  in  the  hall  asking  for  Mr. 
Glen ;  and  there  is  a  person  as  says  she's  just 
come  off  a  journey,  and  wants  Mr.  Glen  too. 
Shall  I  show  them  into  the  library,  or  shall  I 
bring  them  here?" 

Rob  had  dropped  her  hand  hastily  at  the  first 
sound  of  Bland's  appearance ;  and  Margaret, 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  her  head  swim- 
ming, her  heart  throbbing,  struggled  back  into  a 
kind  of  artificial  consciousness  by  means  of  this 
sudden  return  of  the  commonplace  and  ordinary, 
though  she  was  scarcely  aware  what  the  man 
said. 

"I  am  coming,"  she  answered,  faintly;  the 
singing  in  her  ears  sounded  like  an  echo  of  voices 
calling  her.  All  the  world  seemed  calling  her, 
assembling  to  the  crisis  of  her  fate.  She  did  not 
so  much  as  look  at  Rob,  from  whom  she  was 
thus  liberated  all  at  once,  but  turned  and  follow- 
ed Bland  with  all  the  speed  and  quiet  of  great 
excitement,  feeling  herself  carried  along  almost 
without  any  will  of  hers. 

The  hall  at  the  Grange  was  a  sight  to  see, 
that  brilliant  summer  day.  The  door  was  wide 
open,  framing  a  picture  of  blue  sky  and  flower- 
ing shrubs  at  one  end ;  and  the  sunshine,  which 
poured  in  through  the  south  window,  caught  the 
wainscot  panels  and  the  bits  of  old  armor,  con- 
verting them  into  dull  yet  magical  mirrors  full 
of  confused  reflections.  There  were  two  stran- 
gers standing  here,  as  far  apart  as  the  space 
would  allow,  both  full  of  excitement  to  find 
themselves  there,  and  each  full  of  wonder  to  find 
the  other.     Thev  both  turned  toward  Margaret 


1G0 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


as  she  came  in,  pale  as  a  ghost  in  her  black 
dress.  Her  eye  was  first  caught  by  him  who  had 
come  at  her  call,  her  only  confidant,  the  friend 
in  whom  she  had  most  perfect  trust.  The  sight 
of  him  woke  her  out  of  her  abstraction  of  terror 
and  helplessness. 

"Randal!"  she  cried,  with  a  gleam  of  hope 
and  pleasure  lighting  up  her  face. 

Then  she  stopped  short  and  paled,  again,  with 
a  horrible  relapse  into  her  former  panic.  Her 
voice  changed  into  that  pitiful  "oh!"  of  wonder 
and  consternation,  which  the  sight  of  a  mortal 
passenger  called  forth,  as  Dante  tells  us,  from  the 
spirits  in  purgatory.  The  second  stranger  was  a 
woman ;  no  other  than  Mrs.  Glen,  from  Earl's- 
lee,  in  her  best  clothes,  with  a  warm  Paisley 
shawl  enveloping  her  substantial  person,  who 
stood  fanning  herself  with  a  large  white  hand- 
kerchief in  the  only  shady  corner.  These  were 
the  two  seconds  whom,  half  consciously,  half 
willingly,  yet  in  one  case  not  consciously  or  will- 
ingly at  all,  the  two  chief  belligerents  in  this 
strange  duel  had  summoned  to  their  aid. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  strangers  made  their  salutations  very 
briefly ;  as  for  Randal,  he  did  not  approach 
Margaret  at  all.  He  made  her  a  somewhat  stiff* 
bow,  which  once  more,  in  her  simplicity,  wound- 
ed her,  though  the  sight  of  him  was  such  a  re- 
lief; but  even  the  comfort  she  had  in  his  pres- 
ence was  sadly  neutralized  by  this  apparent  evi- 
dence that  he  did  not  think  so  charitably  of  her 
as  she  had  hoped.  Amidst  all  the  pain  and  be- 
wilderment of  the  moment,  it  was  a  pang  the 
more  to  feel  thus  driven  back  upon  herself  by 
Randal's  disapproval.  She  gave  him  an  anxious, 
questioning  look,  but  he  only  bowed,  looking  be- 
yond her  at  Rob  Glen  ;  and  it  was  Mrs.  Glen 
who  hurried  forward  with  demonstration  to  take 
and  shake  between  both  her  own  Margaret's  re- 
luctant hand. 

"  Eh,  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Margret !" 
Mrs.  Glen  said.  "  What  a'heat !  I  thought  I 
would  be  melted,  coming  from  the  station,  but 
a's  weel,  now  I'm  safe  here. " 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,  Miss  Leslie,"  said  Ran- 
dal, "  if  I  ask  leave  to  speak  to  Glen  on  business  ? 
I  took  the  liberty  of  coming  when  I  heard  he 
was  here.  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  disturb 
you  but  for  urgent  business.  Glen,  I  have  heard 
of  something  that  may  be  of  great  importance  to 
you.  Will  you  walk  back  with  me  to  the  sta- 
tion, and  let  me  tell  you  what  it  is  ?  I  have  not 
a  moment  to  spare." 

"Na,  na,  ye'll  gang  wi'  nobody  to  the  station. 
How's  a'  with  ye,  Rob,  my  man  ?"  cried  Mrs. 
Glen;  "you're  no  going  to  leave  me  the  first 
moment  I'm  here?" 

Rob  stood  and  gazed,  first  at  one,  then  at  the 
other.  The  conjunction  did  not  seem  to  bode 
him  any  good,  though  he  did  not  know  how  it 
could  harm  him.  He  looked  at  them  as  if  they 
had  dropped  from  the  clouds,  and  a  dull  sense 
that  his  path  was  suddenly  obstructed,  and  that 
he  was  being  hemmed  in  by  friends  as  well  as 
by  foes,  came  over  him.  "  What  do  you  want  ?" 
he  said,  hoarsely.  The  question  was  addressed 
chiefly  to  his  mother,  to  whom  he  could  relieve 


himself  by  a  savage  tone  not  to  be  endured  by 
any  stranger.  ' 

"  Me  ?"  said  Mrs.  Glen  ;  "  I  want  nothing  but 
a  kindly  welcome  from  you  and  your  bonnie  young 
lady ;  that's  a'  I'm  wanting.  But  I  couldna  trust 
yon  intil  a  letter,"  she  added,  in  a  lower  tone — "I 
thought  it  was  a  great  deal  safer  just  to  bring  it 
myself." 

"But  I,"  said  Randal,  quickly,  "have  come 
upon  business,  Glen.  Miss  Leslie  will  excuse 
me  for  bringing  it  here,  though  I  had  not  meant 
to  do  so.  I  have  a  very  advantageous  offer  to 
tell  you  of.  It  was  made  to  me,  but  it  will  suit 
you  better.  There  is  pleasant  work  and  good 
pay,  and  a  good  opening.  Could  you  not  put  off 
this  happy  meeting  for  a  little,  and  listen  to  what 
I  have  to  say  ?" 

"Good  pay,  and  a  good  opening?  Rob,  my 
man,"  said  Mrs.  Glen,  "leave  you  me  with  Miss 
Margret — we  were  aye  real  good  friends — and 
listen  like  a  good  lad  to  what  Mr.  Randal  says. 
A  good  opening,  and  good  pay — eh !  but  you're 
a  kind  lad  when  there's  good  going  no  to  keep  it 
to  yourself." 

"  If  Glen  will  not  give  me  his  attention,  I  may 
be  tempted  to  keep  it  to  myself,"  said  Randal, 
with  a  smile — "and  there  is  not  a  moment  to 
lose."  He  had  meant  what  he  said  when  he 
pledged  himself  to  serve  her,  to  do  anything  for 
her  that  his  power  could  reach.  Nobody  but 
himself  knew  what  a  sacrifice  it  was  that  he  was 
prepared  to  make.  And  there  was  not  a  mo- 
ment to  lose.  It  was  evident  by  the  look  of  all 
parties,  and  by  the  unexplained  appearance  of 
Mrs.  Glen,  that  the  crisis  was  even  more  alarm- 
ing, more  urgent  than  he  thought.  The  only 
thing  he  could  do  was  to  insist  upon  the  prior 
urgency  of  Ms  business.  Could  he  but  get  Rob 
away !  Randal  knew  that  Margaret's  natural 
protectors  were  on  the  way  to  take  charge  of 
her:  he  made  another  anxious  appeal.  "Par- 
don me  if  I  have  no  time  for  explanations  or 
apologies,"  he  said  ;  "you  may  see  how  impor- 
tant it  is,  when  I  have  come  from  London  to  tell 
you  of  it.  Glen,  you  ought  not  to  neglect  such 
an  opportunity.  Miss  Leslie  will  excuse  you — it 
may  make  your  fortune.  Won't  you  come  with 
me,  and  let  me  tell  you  ?  I  can't  explain  every- 
thing here — " 

"Eh,  Rob,"  said  Mrs.  Glen,  who  had  pressed 
forward  anxiously  to  listen.  "What's  half  an 
hour,  one  way  or  another?  I  would  gang  with 
him,  and  I  would  hear  what  he's  got  to  say. 
We're  none  so  pressed  for  time,  you  and  me. 
What's  half  an  hour?  and  me  and  your  bonnie 
Miss  Margret  will  have  our  cracks  till  ye  come 
back.     Gang  away,  my  man,  gang  away !" 

Rob  stood  undecided  between  them,  looking 
from  one  to  another,  distrusting  them  all,  even 
his  mother.  Why  had  she  come  here?  They 
seemed  all  in  a  plot  to  get  him  away  from  this 
spot,  where  alone  (he  thought)  he  could  insist 
upon  his  rights.  "How  did  he  know  I  was 
here?"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 

As  for  Margaret,  everything  was  in  a  confu- 
sion about  her.  She  did  not  comprehend  why 
Randal  should  stand  there  without  a  word  to  her, 
scarcely  looking  at  her.  Was  this  the  way  to 
serve  her?  And  yet  was  it  not  for  her  sake  that 
he  was  trying  to  take  the  other  claimant — this 
too  urgent  suitor — away?  As  she  stood  there, 
passive,   confused,    and    wondering,   Margaret, 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


1G1 


standing  with  her  face  to  the  door,  was  the  first 
to  perceive,  all  at  once  detaching  themselves  from 
the  background  of  the  sky,  two  figures  outside, 
whose  appearance  brought  a  climax  to  all  the 
confusion  within.  In  the  pause  within- doors, 
while  they  all  waited  to  see  what  Rob  would  do, 
a  brisk  voice  outside  suddenly  took  up  and  oc- 
cupied the  silence : 

"I  think  most  likely  they  don't  expect  us  at 
all.  You  never  can  be  sure  of  Grace.  Her  very 
letters  go  astray  as  other  people's  letters  never 
do.  The  post  itself  goes  wrong  with  her.  If 
they  had  expected  me,  they  would  have  sent  the 
carriage.  But  I  declare,  there  are  people  in  the 
hall !  I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Bellingham,  in  a 
tone  of  wonder,  not  unmingled  with  indignation, 
"if  they  have  been  having  visitors  —  visitors, 
Grace  and  Margaret,  while  I  have  been  away  ?" 
No  one  said  a  word.  Randal,  who  had  been 
standing  with  his  back  to  the  door,  turned  round 
hastily,  and  the  others  stood  startled,  not  know- 
ing what  was  about  to  happen,  but  with  a  con- 
sciousness that  the  tad  of  all  things  was  draw- 
ing near.  Mrs.  Bellingham  marched  in,  with 
mingled  curiosity  and  resolution  in  her  face. 
She  came  in,  as  the  head  of  a  house  had  a  right 
to  come,  into  a  place  where  very  high  jinks  had 
been  enacted  in  his  or  her  absence.  She  looked 
curiously  at  Rob  Glen  and  his  mother,  who  faced 
her  first,  and  said  "Oh!"  with  a  slight  swing  of 
her  person — a  half  bow,  a  half  courtesy,  less  of 
courtesy  than  suspicion ;  but  Jean  was  always 
aware  what  was  due  to  herself,  and  could  not  be 
rude.  When  the  third  stranger  caught  her  eye, 
she  gave  way  to  a  little  outcry  of  genuine  sur- 
prise— "You  here,  Randal  Burnside!" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  said.  "You  must  think  it 
very  strange ;  but  I  will  explain  everything  to 
you  afterward." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  there  is  no  need  for  expla- 
nations ;  your  father's  son  can  never  be  un- 
welcome," said  Mrs.  Bellingham,  guardedly. 
"Well,  Margaret,  my  dear,  so  this  is  you!  I 
think  either  you  or  Grace  might  have  thought 
of  sending  the  carriage ;  but  you  have  been  hav- 
ing company,  I  see — where  is  Grace  ?" 

"Oh,  dearest  Jean!"  cried  Miss  Leslie,  rush- 
ing forward,  "to  think  that  you  should  arrive 
like  this  without  any  one  expecting  you  !  And 
oh,  dear  Ludovic,  you  too !     I  am  sure — " 

"You  have  been  having  company,  I  see,"  said 
Mrs.  Bellingham  ;  "  I  trust  we  are  not  interrupt- 
ing anything.  I  will  take  a  seat  here  for  a  lit- 
tle ;  I  think  it  is  the  coolest  place  in  the  house. 
You  had  better  ask  your  friends  to  take  chairs, 
Grace." 

"Oh,  dearest  Jean,  it  is  Mr.  Glen,  the  clever 
artist,  you  know,  who — but  I  don't  know  the — 
the — "  What  should  Miss  Leslie  have  said  ? 
To  call  Mrs.  Glen  a  lady  was  not  practicable, 
and  to  call  her  a  woman  was  evidently  an  of- 
fence against  politeness.  "I  assure  you,"  she 
said  in  her  sister's  ear,  "I  don't  know  in  the  least 
who  she  is." 

Mrs.  Bellingham  sat  down  in  the  great  chair 
which  stood  by  the  fireplace,  a  great  old  carved 
throne  in  black  wood,  which  looked  like  a  chief- 
justice's  at  least.  It  was  close  to  the  door,  and 
served  to  bar  all  exit.  Sir  Ludovic  had  come 
in  a  minute  after  her,  and  he  had  been  engaged 
in  greeting  his  little  sister  Margaret,  and  shak- 
ing hands  with  Randal  Burnside,  whom  he  was 


very  glad  to  see,  with  a  little  surprise,  but  with- 
out arriere-pensee.  But  when  the  salutations 
were  over  he  looked  round  him,  and  with  a  sud- 
den, sharp  exclamation,  discovered  Rob  Glen  by 
his  side. 

"Margaret,"  he  said  at  once,  "you  had  bet- 
ter retire ;  my  dear,  you  had  better  retire.  I 
don't  think  this  is  a  place  for  you." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Ludovic,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellingham  ;  "  where  her  brother  and  her  sisters 
are  is  just  the  right  place  for  Margaret.  I  have 
not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  the  Miss  Leslies' 
friends — neither  do  you,  I  suppose  ;  but  Marga- 
ret will  just  remain,  and  I  dare  say  everything 
will  be  cleared  up.  It  is  a  very  fine  day," 
Jean  said,  with  a  gracious  attempt  to  conciliate 
everybody,  "and  very  good  for  bringing  on  the 
hay." 

After  this  there  was  a  slight  pause  again ;  but 
Mrs.  Glen  felt  that  this  was  a  tribute  to  her  own 
professional  knowledge ;  and  as  no  one  else  took 
up  the  role  of  reply,  she  came  forward  a  step, 
with  a  little  cough  and  clearing  of  her  throat. 

"England's  a  great  deal  forwarder  in  that 
respeck  than  we  are  in  our  part  of  the  world," 
she  said.  "  It's  no  muckle  mair  than  the  spring 
season  wi'  us,  and  here  it's  perfit  simmer.  We'll 
no  be  thinking  o'  the  hay  for  this  month  to 
come ;  but  I  wouldna  wonder  if  it  was  near  cut- 
ting here." 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Ludovic  had  gone  up  to  Rob 
Glen  in  great  agitation.  "What  are  you  doing 
here  ?"  he  said.  "  Why  did  you  come' here  ?  I 
never  thought  you  would  have  taken  such  a  step 
as  this.  I  gave  you  credit  for  more  straightfor- 
wardness, more  gentlemanly  feeling — " 

"There  has  been  enough  of  this  !"  cried  Rob. 
Exasperation  is  of  kin  to  despair.  Amidst  all 
these  bewildered  faces  looking  at  him,  not  one 
was  friendly — not  one  looked  at  him  as  the  fut- 
ure master  of  the  house,  as  the  man  who  was 
one  day  to  be  Margaret's  husband  should  have 
been  looked  at.  And  Margaret  herself  had  no 
thought  of  standing  by  him.  She  had  shrunk 
away  from  him  into  the  background,  as  if  she 
would  have  seized  the  opportunity  to  escape. 
"There  has  been  enough  of  this,"  he  said;  "I 
do  not  see  any  reason  why  I  should  put  up  with 
it.  If  I  am  here,  it  is  because  there  is  no  other 
place  in  the  world  where  I  have  so  much  right 
to  be.  I  have  come  to  claim  my  rights.  Mar- 
garet can  tell  you  what  right  I  have  to  be  here." 

"Margaret !"  repeated  Mrs.  Bellingham,  won- 
dering, in  her  high-pitched  voice. 

"Glen!"  cried  Randal,  interrupting  him  with 
nervous  haste  —  "I  told  you  I  had  an  impor- 
tant proposal  to  make  to  you.  When  you  know 
that  I  came  down  expressly  to  bring  it,  I  think 
I  might  have  your  attention  at  least.  Will  you 
come  with,  me  and  hear  what  it  is  ?  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Mrs.  Bellingham  ;  I  do  not  want  to  in- 
terfere with  any  other  explanation ;  but  I  came 
down  on  purpose,  and  Glen  ought  to  give  me  an 
answer,  while  I  have  time  to  stay — " 

"Eh,  bide  a  moment,  bide  a  moment,  Mr. 
Randal ;  gie  him  but  a  half-hour's  grace,"  cried 
Mrs.  Glen.     "Speak  up,  Rob,  my  bonnie  man." 

Randal,  though  he  felt  his  intervention  useless, 
made  one  last  effort.  "I  must  have  my  answer 
at  once,"  he  cried,  impatient.  "I  tell  you  it  is 
for  your  interest,  Glen — " 

"I  don't  think,  gentlemen,"  said  Sir  Ludovic, 


1G2 


THE  PEIM110SE  PATH. 


"that  this  is  a  place  to  carry  on  an  argument 
between  yourselves,  with  which  the  ladies  of  this 
house,  at  least,  have  nothing  to  do." 

"  It*  you  will  not  come,  I  at  least  must  go!" 
Randal  cried,  with  great  excitement.  He  gave 
her  an  anxious  glance,  which  she  did  not  even 
see,  and  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
despair.      "  I  can  do  no  good  here,"  he  said. 

Rob  glared  round  upon  them  all — all  looking 
at  him — all  hostile,  he  thought.  He  had  it  in 
his  power,  at  least,  to  frighten  these  people  who 
looked  down  upon  him,  who  would  think  him 
not  good  enough  to  mate  with  them.  He  turn- 
ed toward  Margaret,  who  still  stood  behind  him, 
trembling,  and  called  out  her  name  in  a  voice 
that  made  the  hall  ring. 

"Margaret!  it  is  you  that  have  the  first  right 
to  be  consulted.  Sir  Ludovic,  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  Margaret  is  pledged  to  be  my  wife." 

"His  wife!"  Mrs.  Bellingham  sat  bolt- up- 
right in  her  chair,  and  Miss  Leslie,  with  a  little 
shriek,  ran  to  Margaret's  side,  with  the  instinct 
of  supporting  what  seemed  to  her  the  side  of 
sentiment  against  tyranny.  "Darling  Marga- 
ret !  lean  upon  me — let  me  support  you ;  I  will 
never  forsake  you !*  she  breathed,  fervently,  in  her 
young  sister's  ear. 

"  Silence ! "  cried  Sir  Ludovic  ;  "  how  dare  you, 
sir,  make  such  a  claim  upon  a  young  lady  under 
age  ?    If  you  had  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman — " 

At  this  moment,  Mrs.  Glen  stepped  forward 
to  do  battle  for  her  son. 

"You  may  think  it  fine  manners,  Sir  Ludovic, 
to  cast  up  to  my  Rob  that  he's  no  a  gentleman  ; 
but  it  doesna  seem  fine  manners  to  me.  Ay, 
that  she  is !  troth-plighted  till  him,  as  I  can  bear 
witness,  and  by  a  document,  my  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, that  ye'll  find  to  be  good  in  law." 

"Mother,  hold  your  tongue!"  cried  Rob.  A 
suppressed  fury  was  growing  in  him ;  he  felt 
himself  an  alien  among  these  people  whom  he 
was  claiming  to  belong  to,  but  of  whom  nobody 
belonged  to  him,  except  the  mother,  whose  home- 
liness and  inferiority  was  so  very  apparent  to  his 
eyes.  He  was  growing  hoarse  with  excitement 
and  passion.  "Sir  Ludovic  knows  so  well  what 
my  position  is,"  he  said,  with  dry  lips,  "  that  he 
has  asked  me  to  give  it  up ;  he  has  tried  before 
now  to  persuade  me  that  I  was  required  to  prove 
myself  a  gentleman  by  giving  it  up.  A  gentle- 
man !  what  does  that  mean  ?"  cried  Rob.  "  How 
many  gentlemen  would  there  be  left  if  they  were 
required  to  give  up  everything  that  is  most  dear 
to  them,  to  prove  the  empty  title?  Do  gentle- 
men sacrifice  their  interests  and  their  hopes  for 
nothing? — or  do  you  count  it  honorable  in  a 
gentleman  to  abandon  the  woman  he  loves  ?  If 
so,  I  am  no  gentleman,  as  you  say.  I  will  not 
give  up  Margaret.  She  chose  me  as  much  as  I 
chose  her.  She  is  frightened,  and  you  may  force 
her  into  abandoning  her  betrothed  and  breaking 
her  word.  Women  are  fickle,  and  she  is  afraid 
of  you  all ;  but  she  is  mine,  and  I  will  never  give 
her  up." 

"Margaret,"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  taking  her  hand 
and  drawing  her  forward,  "  give  this  man  his  an- 
swer. Tell  him  you  will  have  none  of  him.  You 
may  have  been  imprudent — " 

"But  she  can  be  prudent  now,"  said  Rob 
Glen,  with  a  smile;  "she  can  give  up,  now  that 
she  is  rich,  the  man  that  loved  her  when  she  was 
poor.     Margaret !  yes,  you  can  please  them  and 


leave  me  because  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you. 
They  say  such  lessons  are  easily  learned ;  but  I 
would  not  have  looked  for  it  from  you." 

Margaret  stood  in  the  centre,  in"  face  of  them 
all,  with  her  brain  reeling  and  her  heart  wrung. 
She  had  a  consciousness  that  Randal  was  there 
too,  looking  at  her,  which  was  a  mistake,  for  he 
had  left  the  hall  hastily  when  his  attempt  was 
foiled ;  but  all  the  others  were  round  her,  mak- 
ing a  spectacle  of  her  confusion,  searching  her 
with  their  eyes.  What  had  she  to  do  but  to  re- 
peat the  vehement  denial  which  she  had  given 
to  Rob  himself  not  half  an  hour  ago  ?  She  wrung 
her  hands.  The  case  was  different :  here  he  was 
alone,  contending  with  them  all  for  her.  Her 
heart  ached  for  him,  though  she  shrank  from 
him.  She  gave  a  low  cry  and  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands :  how  could  she  desert  him  ?  how 
could  she  cast  him  off,  when  he  stood  thus  alone  ? 

"You  see,"  said  Rob,  triumphantly,  with  a 
wonderful  sense  of  relief,  "she  will  not  cast  me 
off  as  you  bid  her.  She  is  mine.  You  will  nev- 
er be  able  to  separate  us  if  we  are  true  to  each 
other.  Margaret,  my  darling,  lift  your  sweet 
face  and  look  at  me.  All  the  brothers  in  the 
world  cannot  separate  us.  Give  me  your  hand, 
darling,  for  it  is  mine." 

"Stand  off,  sir!"  cried  Sir  Ludovic,  furious; 
and  Mrs.  Bellingham,  coming  down  from  her 
chair  as  from  a  throne,  came  and  stood  between 
them,  putting  out  her  hand  to  put  the  intruder 
away.  Jean  was  all  but  speechless  with  wonder 
and  rage.  She  put  her  other  hand  upon  Marga- 
ret's shoulder  and  pushed  her  from  her,  giving 
her  a  shake,  as  she  did  so,  of  irrepressible  wrath. 
"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?  Put  those 
people  out,  Ludovic !  put  this  strange  woman,  I 
tell  you,  to  the  door!" 

"Put  us  out!"  cried  Mrs.  Glen.  "I'll  daur 
ye  to  do  that  at  your  peril !  Look  at  what  I've 
got  here.  I  have  come  straight  from  my  ain 
house  to  bring  this,  that  has  never  left  my  hands 
since  that  frightened  lassie  there  wrote  it  out. 
It's  her  promise  and  vow  before  God,  that  is 
as  good  as  marriage  in  Scots  law,  as  everybody 
kens.  Na,  you'll  no  get  it  out  of  my  hands. 
There  it  is!  You  may  look  till  you're  tired. 
You'll  find  no  cheatery  here." 

"Did  you  write  this,  Margaret?"  said  her 
brother,  in  tones  of  awful  judicial  severity,  as  it 
seemed  to  her  despairing  ears.  They  all  gath- 
ered round,  with  a  murmur  of  excitement. 

"Marriage  in  Scots  law !  good  Lord,  anything 
is  marriage  in  Scots  law,"  Mrs.  Bellingham  said, 
under  her  breath,  in  a  tone  of  horror.  Grace 
burst  out  into  a  little  scream  of  excitement, 
wringing  her  hands. 

"Did  you  write  this,  Margaret?"  still  more 
solemnly  Sir  Ludovic  asked  again.  Margaret 
uncovered  her  face.  She  looked  at  them  all 
with  her  heart  sinking.  Here  was  the  final  mo- 
ment that  must  seal  her  fate.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  after  she  had  made  her  confession  there 
would  be  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to  go  forth, 
away  from  all  she  cared  for,  with  the  two  stran- 
gers who  had  her  in  their  power.  She  clasped 
her  hands  together,  and  looked  at  the  group, 
which  was  all  blurred  and  indistinct  in  her  eyes. 
She  could  not  defend  herself,  or  explain  herself  at 
such  a  moment,  but  breathed  out  from  her  very 
soul  a  dismal,  reluctant,  almost  inaudible  "Yes!" 
which  seemed  the  very  utterance  of  despair. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


1G3 


"Ay,  my  bonnie  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Glen,  tri- 
umphant, "  you  never  were  the  one  to  go  against 
your  ain  act  and  deed.  Me  and  my  Rob,  we 
ken  you  better  than  all  your  grand  friends. 
Weel  I  kent  that  whatever  they  might  say-,  you 
would  never  go  against  your  ain  hand  of  write." 

Rob  had  been  standing  passive  all  this  time, 
with  such  a  keen  sense  of  the  terror  in  Margaret's 
eyes,  and  the  contempt  that  lay  under  the  seri- 
ous trouble  of  the  others,  as  stung  him  to  the 
very  centre  of  his  being.  The  unworthiness  of 
his  own  position,  the  bewildered  misery  of  the 
girl  whom  he  was  persecuting,  the  seriousness 
of  the  crisis  as  shown  by  the  troubled  looks  of 
the  brother  and  sister  who  were  bending  their 
heads  over  the  paper  which  his  mother  held  out 
so  triumphantly — all  this  smote  the  young  man 
with  a  sudden,  sharp  perception.  He  was  not  of 
a  mean  nature  altogether.  The  quick  impulses 
which  swayed  him  turned  as  often  to  generosity 
as  to  self-interest;  and  all  this  while  there  had 
been  films  about  this  pursuit  of  the  young  heiress 
which  had  partially  deceived  him  as  to  its  true 
nature. 

What  is  there  in  the  world  more  hard  than  to 
see  ourselves  as  we  appear  to  those  on  the  other 
side  ?  A  sudden  momentary  overwhelming  reve- 
lation of  this  came  upon  him  now.  He  did  not 
hear  the  whispers  of  "compromise  it" — "offer 
him  something — offer  him  anything,  "which  Jean, 
utterly  frightened,  was  pouring  into  her  broth- 
er's ear.  He  saw  only  the  utter  abandonment 
of  misery  in  Margaret's  face,  the  vulgar  triumph 
in  his  mother's,  the  odious  position  in  which  he 
himself  stood  between  them.  In  a  moment  his 
sudden  resolution  was  taken :  he  pushed  in 
roughly  into  the  group,  in  passionate  preoccupa- 
tion, scarcely  seeing  them,  and  snatched  the  scrap 
of  paper  she  held  out  of  his  mother's  hands. 
"Margaret!"  he  cried,  loudly,  in  his  excitement, 
"look  here!  and  here!  and  here!"  tearing  it 
into  a  thousand  fragments.  He  pushed  his 
mother  aside,  who  rushed  with  a  shriek  upon 
him  to  save  them,  and  tossed  the  little  white 
atoms  into  the  air.  "I  asked  for  your  love,"  he 
said,  his  eyes  moistening,  his  face  glowing,  "not 
for  papers  or  promises.  Give  me  that,  or  noth- 
ing at  all." 

Sudden  tears  rushed  to  Margaret's  eyes ;  she 
did  not  know  what  had  happened,  but  she  felt 
that  she  was  saved. 

"  Oh,  Rob !"  she  cried,  turning  to  him,  putting 
out  her  hands. 

Sir  Ludovic  sprang  forward  and  took  both 
these  hands  into  his. 

"  Margaret,  do  you  want  to  marry  him  ?"  he 
cried. 

"  Oh  no,  no,  no ;  but  anything  else ! "  the  girl 
said.  "It  was  never  he  that  did  that.  He  was 
always  kind — kinder  than  anybody  in  the  world : 
I  am  his  friend  !  Let  me  go,  Ludovic !  Rob," 
she  said,'  going  up  to  him,  giving  him  her  hand, 
the  tears  dropping  from  her  eyes,  "not  that; 
but  I  am  your  friend ;  I  will  always  be  your 
friend,  whatever  may  happen,  wherever  we  may 
be.  I  will  never  forget  you,  Rob.  Good-bye! 
You  are  kind  again,  you  are  like  yourself;  you 
are  my  old  Rob  that  always  was  my  friend." 

Rob  took  her  hands  into  his.  He  stooped 
over  her  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead :  he 
would  not  give  in  without  a  demonstration  of  his 
power.     Then  he  flung  her  hands  away  from 


him   almost  with  violence,  and  turned  to    the 
door. 

"  It  seems  my  fate  never  to  be  able  to  do  what 
is  best  for  myself,"  he  said,  looking  back  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand  and  an  irrepressible  burst 
of  self-assertion,  as  he  turned  and  disappeared 
among  the  flowering  bushes  outside  the  open 
door. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

Rob  issued  forth  out  of  the  Grange  discomfited 
and  beaten,  but  without  the  sense  of  moral  down- 
fall which  had  been  bowing  him  to  the  ground. 
His  heart  was  melted,  his  spirit  softened.  He 
was  defeated,  but  he  was  not  humiliated.  He 
had  come  off  with  all  the  honors  of  war — not  an 
insulted  coward,  but  a  magnanimous  hero.  "All 
is  lost  but  honor,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  an 
expansion  of  his  breast.  His  eyes  were  still  wet 
with  the  dew  of  generous  feeling :  he  had  not 
been  forced  into  renunciation ;  he  had  himself 
evacuated  the  untenable  position.  There  was  a 
little  braggadocio  in  this  self- consciousness — a 
little  even  of  what  in  school-boy  English  is  called 
swagger;  but  still  he  had  a  certain  right  to  his 
swagger.  He  had  taken  the  only  possible  way 
of  coming  out  with  honor  from  the  dilemma  in 
which  he  had  placed  himself.  He  said  to  him- 
self that  it  was  a  great  sacrifice  he  had  made. 
All  the  hopes  upon  which  he  had  dwelt  so  long 
and  fondly  were  gone;  he  was  all  at  sea  again 
for  his  future,  and  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
What  was  he  to  do?  He  could  not  return  to 
the  aimless  life  he  had  pursued  in  his  mother's 
house ;  and  by  this  time  he  had  found  out  that 
it  was  by  no  means  so  easy  as  he  had  supposed 
to  get  fortune  and  reputation  in  London.  What 
should  he  do  ?  He  could  hope  nothing  from  his 
mother.  He  knew  well  with  what  reproaches 
she  would  overwhelm  him,  what  taunts  she  would 
have  in  her  power.  He  must  do  something  to 
secure  himself  independence,  though  for  so  long 
he  had  hoped  that  independence  was  coming  to 
him  in  the  easiest  way — a  rich  wife — not  only 
rich,  but  fair — the  "position  of  a  gentleman," 
most  dearly  cherished  of  all  the  gifts  of  fortune 
— a  handsome  house,  leisure  and  happiness,  and 
everything  that  heart  of  man  could  desire.  The 
breaking  up  of  this  dream  called  forth  a  sigh 
when  the  first  elation  of  his  victory  over  himself 
was  over,  and  then  he  began  to  droop  as  he 
walked  on.  No  elevation  in  the  social  scale  was 
likely  to  come  now.  Rob  Glen,  the  son  of  a  small 
farmer,  he  was,  and  would  remain  ;  not  the  happy 
hero  of  a  romance,  not  the  great  artist  undevel- 
oped, not  the  genius  he  had  thought.  Thus  the 
brag  and  the  swagger  gradually  melted  away : 
the  sense  of  moral  satisfaction  ceased  to  give 
him  as  much  support  as  at  first — even  the  gen- 
erous sentiment  sank  into  a  sense  of  failure. 
What  was  to  become  of  him  ?  He  walked  on, 
dull  but  dogged,  going  steadily  forward,  but 
scarcely  knowing  where  he  was  going ;  and  thus 
came  upon  Randal  Burnside  walking  along  the 
same  road  before  him,  more  anxious  and  excited, 
and  not  much  less  discouraged  and  melancholy 
than  he. 

Randal's  face  brightened  slightly  at  the  sight 
of  him. 


164 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


"You  have  come,  after  all,  Glen,"  he  said; 
"I  had  almost  given  you  up." 

"  I  gave  myself  up  before  I  came,"  said  Rob. 

"What  do  you  mean?  I  suppose  they  were 
hard  upon  you — perhaps  you  could  scarcely  ex- 
pect it  to  be  otherwise ;  but  with  your  good-fort- 
une you  may  easily  bear  more  than  that,"  said 
Randal :  then  he  checked  himself,  remembering 
that  Margaret's  horror  of  her  lover's  presence 
pointed  to  not  much  good-fortune.  "Let  me 
tell  you  now  what  my  business  was,"  he  said, 
with  a  sigh.  He  was  too  loyal  to  depart  from 
his  purpose  ;  but  though  (he  thought)  he  would 
have  given  up  life  itself  to  serve  Margaret,  yet 
he  could  not  make  this  sacrifice  without  a  sigh. 
He  told  his  companion  very  briefly  what  it  was. 
It  was  an  offer  from  a  newspaper  to  investigate 
a  subject  of  great  popular  interest,  requiring 
some  knowledge  of  Scotch  law.  "But  that  I 
could  easily  coach  you  in,"  Randal  said.  He 
went  into  it  in  detail",  showing  all  its  advantages, 
as  they  walked  along  the  country  road.  The  first 
necessity  it  involved  was  a  speedy  start  to  the 
depths  of  Scotland,  close  work  for  three  months, 
good  pay,  and  possible  reputation.  Rob  listened 
to  the  whole  with  scarcely  a  remark.  When 
Randal  paused,  he  turned  upon  him  hastily  : 

"This  was  offered  not  to  me,  but  to  your- 
self," he  said. 

"Yes;  but  you  know  a  little  of  the  law,  and 
I  could  easily  coach  you  in  all  you  require." 

"And  why  do  you  offer  it  to  me?" 

"Come,"  said  Randal,  with  a  laugh,  "there 
is  no  question  of  motive  ;  I  don't  offer  it  to  you 
from  any  wish  to  harm  you.  To  tell  the  truth, 
it  would  suit  me  very  well  myself." 

"And  you  would  give  it  to  me,  to  relieve  her 
of  my  presence?"  cried  Rob.  "I  see  it  now! 
Burnside,  will  you  tell  me  honestly,  what  is  your 
reward  to  be  ?" 

"I  have  neither  reward  nor  hope  of  reward," 
cried  Randal ;  "  evidently  not  even  a  thank-you. 
I  would  not  answer  such  a  question,  but  that  I 
see  you  are  excited — " 

"  Yes,  I  am  excited — I  have  good  cause.  I 
have  given  her  up,  and  every  hope  connected 
with  her ;  so  there  is  no  more  need  to  bribe  me," 
said  Rob,  with  a  harsh  laugh.  "Keep  your  ap- 
pointment to  yourself." 

"  Will  you  take  it,  or  will  you  leave  it,  Glen  ? 
What  may  have  happened  otherwise  is  nothing 
to  me — " 

"There  is  the  train,"  said  Rob.  "No!  I'll 
take  nothing,  either  from  her  dislike  or  your 
friendship — nothing!  There  are  still  some  in 
the  world  that  care  more  for  me  than  charity. 
Good-bye." 

He  made  a  dash  up  the  bank,  where  a  train 
was  visible,  puffing  and  pulling  up  at  the  little 
station — the  legitimate  road  being  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  round,  and  hopeless. 

"  Come  back !"  cried  Randal ;  "  you  will  break 
your  neck.     There  is  another  train — " 

Rob  made  no  reply,  but  waved  his  hand,  and 
dashed  in  wild  haste  over  ditch  and  paling. 
Randal  stood  breathless,  and  saw  him  reach  the 
height  and  spring  into  a  carriage  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, as  the  train  puffed  and  fretted  on  its  way. 
The  spectator  did  not  move — what  was  the  use  ? 
He  had  no  wish  to  take  the  same  wild  road :  he 
stood  and  looked  after  the  long  white  plume  as 
it  coursed  across  the  countrv. 


"  He  has  got  it,  and  I  have  lost  it,"  he  said ; 
but  Randal  smiled  to  himself.  A  sense  of  ease, 
of  relief,  and  pleasure  after  so  much  pain,  came 
over  him.  There  was  no  longer  any  hurry. 
Should  he  go  forward  ?  should  he  turn  back  ? — 
it  did  not  much  matter :  he  had  two  or  three 
hours  on  his  hands  before  he  could  get  away. 

The  rush  and  noise  of  the  train  was  a  relief, 
on  the  other  hand,  to  the  traveller.  As  it 
pounded  along,  with  roll  and  clang,  and  shrill 
whistle,  the  sudden  hurry  of  his  thoughts  kept 
time.  He  had  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Now 
and  then,  when  its  speed  slackened,  he  got  up 
and  paced  about  the  narrow  space  of  the  car- 
riage, as  if  the  continued  movement  got  him 
on  the  faster.  When  he  reached  London,  he 
jumped  into  a  hansom  and  dashed  through  the 
crowded  Strand  to  one  of  the  little  streets  lead- 
ing down  toward  the  river.  Arrived  there,  he 
thundered  at  a  door  and  rushed  up-stairs,  three 
steps  at  a  time,  till  he  came  to  a  little  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house,  where  the  sole  occupant, 
a  young  woman,  had  been  sitting,  looking  wist- 
fully out  upon  a  glimpse  of  the  river,  which 
showed  in  dim  twilight  reflections  at  the  foot  of 
the  street,  for  it  was  almost  night.  Her  father 
was  out,  and  Jeanie  sat  alone.  She  had  "  nae 
heart"  to  walk  about  the  streets,  to  look  in  at 
the  dazzling  shop-windows,  to  take  any  pleasure 
in  the  sight  of  London.  She  was  thinking — 
would  she  see  him  again  ?  would  he  come  and 
bid  her  farewell,  as  he  said,  "  The  day  after  the 
morn,  the  day  after  the  morn  ?''  she  was  say- 
ing to  herself,  sometimes  putting  up  her  hand 
to  brush  away  a  furtive  tear  from  the  corner  of 
her  eyes.  That  was  the  final  day ;  after  which, 
in  this  world,  she  should  see  Rob's  face  no 
more. 

"Jeanie,"  he  cried,  coming  in  breathless,  "I 
have  come  back  to  you  as  I  said."  Jeanie  stum- 
bled up  to  her  feet,  and  fell  a  crying  with  a 
tremulous  smile  about  her  lips. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad,  glad  to  see  you,"  she  cried, 
"once  mair,  once  mair,  though  it's  naething  but 
to  say  farewell !  We're  to  sail  the  day  after  the 
morn." 

"  The  day  after  the  morn."  He  took  Jeanie's 
hands,  which  gave  themselves  up  to  his  as  Mar- 
garet's shrinking  fingers  had  never  done,  and 
looked  into  her  pretty,  rustic  face,  all  quivering 
with  love  and  the  anguish  of  parting.  Jeanie 
had  made  her  little  pretences  of  pride,  her  stand 
of  maidenly  dignity  against  him  ;  but  at  this 
moment  all  these  defences  were  forgotten.  He 
had  come  so  suddenly ;  and  it  was  this  once  and 
never  more,  never  more  in  all  the  world  again. 
"The  day  after  the  morn,"  repeated  Rob; 
"then  there  will  just  be  time.  I  am  coming 
with  you ;  and  if  you  will  have  a  man  without 
a  penny,  Jeanie,  it  shall  be  as  man  and  wife  that 
you  and  I  will  go." 

She  gave  a  cry  of  sharp  pain  and  drew  her 
hands  out  of  his.  "How  dare  you  speak  like 
that  to  me  that  means  no  harm  ?  How  dare  you 
speak  like  that  to  me — and  you  another  lass's 
lad,  and  never  mine  ?" 

"I  am  nobody's  but  yours,"  he  said,  "and, 
Jeanie,  you  need  not  try  to  deceive  me.  You 
never  were  but  mine." 

"But  that's  nae  reason,"  she  cried,  wildly, 
"to  come  and  make  a  fool  of  me  to  my  face, 
Rob  Glen.     Oh,  go,  go  to  them  you  belong  to! 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


161 


I  thought  I  might  have  said  farewell  to  you 
without  another  word  ;  but  even  that  canna  be." 

"There  will  never  be  farewell  said  between 
you  and  me,  Jeanie,"  said  Rob,  seriously,  "  nev- 
er from  this  moment  till  death  does  us  ]>art." 

When  Rob  Glen,  stung  at  once  by  the  kind- 
ness and  severity  of  which  he  had  been  the  ob- 
ject, took  this  sudden  resolution,  and  with  a  wild 
dash  of  energy,  and  without  a  pause,  thus  carried 
it  out,  Randal  was  left  alone  upon  the  country 
road,  all  strange  and  unfamiliar  to  him,  but  with 
which  he  seemed  all  at  once  to  have  formed  so 
many  associations,  with  two  or  three  hours  at 
his  disposal.  He  stood  and  watched  the  train 
till  it  was  out  of  sight,  idly,  with  the  most  singu- 
lar sense  of  leisure  in  opposition  to  that  hurry 
and  rush.  From  the  moment  when  Rob  had 
dashed  up  the  bank,  Randal  had  felt  no  longer 
in  any  hurry  or  anxiety  about  the  train.  It  did 
not  matter  if  he  lost  his  train — nothing,  indeed, 
seemed  to  matter  very  much  for  the  moment. 
He  saw  the  carriage  that  contained  Rob  rush  out 
of  sight  while  he  was  standing  in  the  same  place: 
if  he  chose  to  spend  an  hour  in  the  same  place, 
thinking  over  the  causes  which  had  carried  Rob 
awaj',  what  would  it  matter  ?  He  had  plenty  of 
time  for  that  or  anything  else — no  hurry  or  care 
— the  whole  afternoon  before  him.  Would  it 
not  be  better,  more  civil  to  go  back,  and  pay  his 
respects  at  the  Grange  as  he  ought?  He  had 
rushed  into  the  house  like  a  savage,  and  rushed 
out  again  without  a  word  to  say  for  himself. 
Evidently  this  was  not  the  way  to  treat  ladies  to 
whom  he  owed  the  utmost  respect.  He  would 
go  back.  He  turned  accordingly,  and  went 
back ;  still  at  the  most  perfect  leisure.  Plenty 
of  time ;  no  hurry  one  way  or  another. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  however,  before  he  met 
a  curiously-matched  pair  coming  up  along  the 
road  together  —  Mrs.  Glen  talking  loudly  and 
angrily,  Sir  Ludovic  walking  beside  her,  some- 
times saying  a  word,  but  for  the  most  part  pas- 
sive, listening,  and  taking  no  notice.  Randal 
heard  her  long  before  he  saw  the  pair  on  the 
windings  of  the  road.  Mrs.  Glen  did  not  know 
whether  to  abuse  or  defend  her  son.  She  did 
both  by  turns.  "A  fine  son,  to  leave  me,  that 
has  aye  thought  far  ower  muckle  of  him,  to  find 
my  way  home  as  best  I  can,  after  making  a  fool 
of  himself  and  a'  belanging  to  him !  But  where 
was  he  to  gang,  poor  lad  ?  abused  on  a'  hands — 
even  by  those  that  led  him  into  his  trouble,"  she 
cried.  There  was  no  pause  in  her  angry  mono- 
logue. And,  indeed,  the  poor  woman,  in  her 
great  Paisley  shawl,  with  the  hot  sun  playing 
upon  her  head,  her  temper  exasperated,  her  body 
fatigued,  her  hopes  baffled,  might  have  something 
forgiven  to  her.  "Gentry!"  she  cried,  as  she 
began  to  ascend  the  slope  which  led  to  the  sta- 
tion, and  which  Randal  was  coming  down;  "a 
great  deal  the  gentry  have  done  for  my  family 
or  me !  Beguiled  my  Rob,  the  cleverest  lad  in 
a'  Fife,  till  he's  made  a  fool  o'  himself  and  ruined 
a'  his  prospects ;  and  brought  me  trailing  after 
him  to  a  country  where  there's  nae  kindness  nor 
hospitality — among  people  that  never  offer  you 
so  much  as  a  s,tool  to  rest  your  weary  limbs 
upon,  or  a  cup  o'  tea  to  refresh  you.  Eh !  if 
that's  gentry,  I  would  rather  have  the  colliers' 
wives  or  the  fisher  bodies  in  Fife,  let  alone  a 
good  farm-house,  and  that's  my  ain." 

"Mrs.  Glen,"  said  Sir  Ludovic,  "I  am  sure 


my  sisters  would  have  wished  you  to  rest  and  re- 
fresh yourself." 

"Ay,  among  their  servant-women,  no  doubt 
— if  I  would  have  bowed  myself  to  that.  I've 
paid  rent  to  the  Leslies  for  the  last  thirty  years 
— nae  doubt  but  they  durstna  have  refused  me 
a  cup  of  tea;  but  I  would  have  you  to  ken,  Sir 
Ludovic,  though  you're  a  Sir,  and  I'm  a  plain 
farmer,  that  the  like  o'  your  servant-women  are 
nae  neebors  for  me." 
' '  My  good  woman ! " 

"I'm  nae  good  woman  to  be  misca'ed  by  ane 
of  your  race!  Good  woman,  quo' he !  as  I  would 
say  to  some  gangrel  body.  You're  sair  mis- 
taken, Sir  Ludovic,  if  that's  what  you  think  of 
the  like  of  me,  that  has  paid  you  rent,  as  I  was 
saying,  and  held  up  my  head  with  any  in  the 
parish,  and  given  my  bairns  as  good  an  educa- 
tion as  you  or  yours  could  set  your  face  to.  If 
ye  think,  after  a'  that  I've  put  up  with,  that  I'm 
to  take  a  'good  woman'  from  the  laird,  as  if  I 
wasna  to  the  full  as  guid  a  tenant  as  he  is  a 
landlord,  or  maybe  mair  to  lippen  to. " 

"Would  you  have  me  say  'ill  woman?'"  said 
Sir  Ludovic,  with  momentary  peevishness,  yet 
with  a  gleam  of  humor.  "  You  are  quite  right, 
Mrs.  Glen ;  you  are  better  off,  being  a  tenant, 
than  I  am  as  a  landlord.  The  Leslies  never 
were  rich,  that  I  heard  tell  of;  and  if  we  were 
proud,  it  never  was  to  our  neighbors,  the  people 
on  our  own  land." 

"Well,  I  wouldna  say  but  that's  true,"  said 
Mrs.  Glen,  softened.  "Auld  Sir  Ludovic,  your 
father,  had  aye  a  pleasant  word  for  gentle  and 
simple ;  and  if  it  was  not  for  that  lang-tongued 
wife  down  bye  yonder — " 

Sir  Ludovic,  though  he  was  a  serious  man, 
felt  a  momentary  inclination  to  chuckle  when  he 
heard  his  sister  Jean,  the  managing  person  of 
the  family,  described  as  a  lang  -  tongued  wife. 
But  he  said,  gravely, 

"In  such  a  question,  Mrs.  Glen,  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  considered.  You  would  not 
have  liked  it  yourself,  had  one  of  your  daughters 
been  courted  without  your  knowledge  by  a  pen- 
niless lover.  When  you  see  your  son,  if  I  can 
do  anything  for  him,  if  I  can  advance  his  inter- 
ests, let  me  know,  and  I  will  do  it.  He  behaved 
like  a  man  at  the  last." 

"Oh  ay;  when  a  lad  plays  into  your  hands, 
it's  easy  to  say  that  he's  behaving  like  a  man," 
she  said.  "But  she  was  mollified  by  the  praise, 
and  her  wrath  had  begun  to  wear  itself  out. 
"I'll  gie  you  a  word  o'  warning,  Sir  Ludovic, 
though  you've  little  title  to  it  from  my  hands," 
she  added.  "Here's  Randal  Burnside  coming 
back.  If  you've  saved  your  little  Miss  from  ae 
wooer,  here's  another;  and  my  word,  I  would 
sooner  have  a  bonnie  lad  like  my  Rob,  with  real 
genius  in  his  head,  than  a  minister's  son,  neither 
ae  thing  nor  another,  like  Randal  Burnside." 

They  met  a  moment  afterward,  and  Randal 
recounted  what  had  happened ;  how  Rob  had 
caught  the  train,  but  he  himself,  being  too  late, 
had  intended  to  return  to  the  Grange  for  the  in- 
terval, and  was  now  on  his  way  there.  Mrs. 
Glen,  however,  would  not  return ;  she  was  too 
glad  to  be  deposited  in  a  shady  room  where  she 
could  loose  her  shawl  and  bonnet -strings,  and 
fan  herself  with  her  large  handkerchief.  Sir 
Ludovic,  who  had  "a  warm  heart  for  Fife,"  as 
he  himself  expressed  it,  and  who  had  been  touch- 


166 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


ed  by  Rob's  final  self-vindication,  did  everything 
that" could  be  done  for  her  comfort,  before  he 
turned  back  with  Randal.  But  they  had  no 
sooner  left  her,  than  he  fell  to  talking  with  an 
appearance  of  relief. 

"Thank  God,  that's  done  with!"  he  said. 
"It  was  very  foolish  of  poor  little  Margaret; 
but,  after  all,  it  was  nothing — nothing  in  law. 
My  sister  Jean  got  a  terrible  fright.  There  is 
a  panic  abroad  in  the  world  about  Scotch  mar- 
riages ;  but  a  promise  that  is  only  on  one  side 
can  never  be  anything.  You  don't  seem  to  know 
what  I  am  talking  of." 

"No,"  said  Randal,  who  had  gone  out  of  the 
hall  before  the  climax  came.  He  looked  with 
bewildered  curiosity  in  his  companion's  face. 

"You  should  have  told  me,  you  should  have 
told  me  —  what  did  you  know  about  it,  then? 
And  what  were  you  doing  there,  Randal  ?  Ex- 
cuse me,  but  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"You  have  a  perfect  right  to  know.  I  knew 
that  Glen  had,  by  some  means,  engaged — her — 
to  himself,"  said  Randal,  not  knowing  how  to 
express  what  he  meant,  reddening  and  faltering, 
as  if  he  himself  had  been  the  culprit.  "I  saw 
them  together  twice  at  Earl's-hall ;  and  once  she 
was  good  enough  to  speak  to  me  about  it.  I 
had  taken  no  notice  of  her  when  I  saw  them, 
thinking,  as  one  does  brutally,  that  she  under- 
stood what  she  was  doing,  as  I  did.  And  in  her 
innocence  she  asked  me  why  ?  What  could  I 
say  but  that  I  was  a  brute,  and  a  fool — and  that 
if !  could  ever  serve  her  I  would  do  it,  should  it 
cost  me  my  life." 

"That  is  the  way  you  young  idiots  speak," 
said  Sir  Ludovic,  with  an  impatient  gesture. 
"  Your  life :  how  could  it  affect  your  life?  But 
you  were  neither  a  fool  nor  brutal,  that  I  can 
see.  Poor  little  silly  tiling,  she  thought  you 
were  rude  to  pass  her,  did  she?  and  what  then? 
Innocent!  oh  yes,  she's  innocent  enough." 

"And  then,"  said  Randal,  "she  sent  to  beg 
me  to  help  her,  to  keep  him  away  from  her.  I 
managed  it  that  time ;  and  this  morning  she 
sent  to  me  again.  She  must  have  seen  her  mis- 
take very  soon,  Sir  Ludovic,  and  what  it  has 
cost  her.     But  I  hope  it  is  all  over  now." 

"And  you  came  down  here,  ane's  errand,  as 
we  say  in  Scotland,  for  nothing  but  to  relieve 
her  mind  ?  How  did  you  mean  to  do  it  ?  What 
was  the  business  you  were  so  anxious  to  tell  him 
about  ?  I  thought  it  was  a  strange  business  that 
yon  were  so  anxious  to  talk  over  with  Rob  Glen." 

"It  was  very  simple,"  said  Randal,  coloring 
high  under  this  examination.  "He  is  a  clever 
fellow ;  he  can  write  and  draw,  and  has  a  great 
deal  of  talent.  I  wanted  to  send  him  off  on  a 
piece  of  work  that  had  been  offered  to  me — " 

"To  relieve  her?" 

"Because  I  thought  he  could  do  it — and  for 
other  reasons." 

"I  understand."  Sir  Ludovic  went  on  in  si- 
lence for  some  time  while  Randal's  heart  beat 
quick  in  his  breast.  He  had  said  nothing  to  be- 
tray himself,  and  yet  he  felt  himself  betrayed. 

After  a  while,  Sir  Ludovic  turned  and  laid  his 
hand  kindly,  but  gravely,  on  Randal's  shoulder. 

"Tell  me  the  simple  truth,"  he  said ;  "has  it 
ever  been  breathed  between  you  that  you  should 
succeed  to  the  vacant  place?" 

"  Never !"  cried  Randal,  indignantly ;  "  nor  is 
there  any  vacant  place,"  he  added.     "  Glen  took 


advantage  of  a  child's  ignorance.  She  thought 
him  kind  to  her.  She  was  grateful  to  him.  no 
more ;  and  he  took  advantage  of  it.  There  is 
no  vacant  place." 

"I  see,"  said  Sir  Ludovic:  then,  after  a 
pause:  "Randal,  you  will  act  a  man's  part,  and 
a  friend's,  if  you  will  leave  her  to  come  to  her- 
self, with  Jean  to  look  after  her.  Jean  may  be 
'a  lang-tongued  wife,'"  he  said,  not  able  to  re- 
press a  smile,  "but  she's  a  good  woman  in  her 
way.  She  will  take  good  care  of  our  little  sis- 
ter. What  is  she  but  a  child  still?  You  will 
act  an  honorable  part  if  you  leave  her  to  the 
women :  leave  her  to  be  quiet  and  come  to  her- 
self." 

"  I  will  follow  your  advice  faithfully,  as  you 
give  it  in  good  faith,  Sir  Ludovic,"  said  Randal, 
"if  I  can  do  so;  but  I  warn  you  frankly  that  I 
will  never  be  happy  till  I  have  told  her  what  is 
in  mv  heart." 

"Oh  yes,  it  needs  no  warlock  to  see  what's 
coming."  said  Sir  Ludovic,  shaking  his  head; 
"and  there's  Jean's  nephew,  that  young  haverel 
of  an  Englishman  —  and  probably  two  or  three 
more,  for  anything  I  can  tell.  But  let  her  alone, 
let  her  alone,  Randal,  I  beseech  you,  till  the 
poor  little  silly  thing  comes  to  herself." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  what  hot 
resentment  against  such  a  disparaging  title  min- 
gled with  the  softened  state  of  sentiment  and 
amiable  friendliness  with  which  Randal  felt  dis- 
posed to  regard  all  the  world,  and  especially  this 
paternal  brother,  who  was  so  much  more  like  a 
father.  "  I  will  remember  what  you  say,  and 
attend  to  it — as  far  as  I  can,"  he  said. 

"That  means,  as  far  as  it  may  happen  to  suit 
you,  and  not  a  step  farther,"  said  Sir  Ludovic, 
once  more  shaking  his  head. 

Margaret  was  not  visible  when  they  got  to 
the  Grange.  She  was  supposed  to  be  in  her 
own  room,  and  unable  to  see  any  one ;  and, 
what  was  more  extraordinary,  Miss  Grace  was 
actually  in  her  own  room,  and  unable  to  see  any 
one  —  having  wept  herself  blind,  and  made  her 
nose  scarlet  with  grief,  over  the  separation  of 
the  two  lovers,  and  all  the  domestic  tragedy  that 
had  occurred,  as  Mrs.  Bellingham  declared,  en- 
tirely by  her  fault.  If  ever  there  was  a  woman 
to  whom  the  separation  of  true  lovers  was  dis- 
tressful and  terrible,  Grace  Leslie  was  that  wom- 
an ;  and  Jean  said  it  was  all  her  fault !  "  When 
I  would  give  my  life  to  make  darling  Margaret 
happy!"  cried  the  innocent  offender.  "They 
should  have  my  money,  every  penny ;  I  would 
not  care  how  I  lived,  or  what  I  put  on,  so  long 
as  dearest  Margaret  was  happy ! "  and  she  had 
retired  speechless  and  sobbing,  feeling  the  ca- 
lamity too  cruel.  As  for  Mrs.  Bellingham,  she 
was  in  sole  possession  of  the  drawing-room, 
where  the  gentlemen  found  her,  walking  about 
and  fanning  herself,  bursting  with  a  thousand 
things  to  say.  The  sight  of  an  audience  within 
reach  calmed  her  more  than  anything  else  could 
have  done. 

"What  have  you  done  with  that  woman,  Lu- 
dovic?" she  said.  "She  was  an  impertinent 
woman  ;  but  I'm  sorry  for  her  if  you  walked  her 
all  that  way  to  the  station  as  you  walked  me. 
Did  ever  anybody  hear  such  a  tongue — and  the 
temper  of  a  demon !  But  I  hope  I  have  some 
Christian  feeling ;  and  after  the  young  man  was 
gone,  if  you  had  not  been  in  such  a  hurry,  as  she 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


1G7 


is  a  Fife  woman,  and  a  tenant,  I  would  have  or- 
dered her  a  cup  of  tea." 

"I  told  her  so,"  said  Sir  Ludovic ;  "but  she 
is  comfortable  enough  at  the  station,  and  I  or- 
dered the  people  at  the  inn  to  send  her  one." 

"I  would  have  done  nothing  of  the  kind," 
said  Jean  ;  "a  randy,  nothing  but  a  randy  ;  and 
just  as  likely  as  not  to  enter  into  the  whole  ques- 
tion, and  make  a  talk  about  the  family.  And 
the  way  news  spreads  in  an  English  village  is 
just  marvellous !  Fife  is  bad  enough,  but  Fife 
is  nothing  to  it !  So  you  have  come  back,  Ran- 
dal Burnside  —  oh  yes,  you  young  men  are  al- 
ways missing  your  train.  There's  Aubrey  would 
have  been  here  with  me  and  of  some  use,  but 
that  he  could  not  get  out  of  his  bed  soon  enough 
in  the  morning.  I  am  very  glad  Aubrey's  com- 
ing; he  will  be  a  change  from  all  this.  And  I 
never  saw  a  young  man  with  so  much  tact.  Are 
you  going  up  by  the  next  train,  Randal,  or  are 
you  going  to  stay  ?  Oh  well,  if  you  will  not 
think  it  uncivil,  I  am  glad  for  one  thing  that 
you're  going;  for  I  came  away  in  such  a  hur- 
ry, and  forgot  one  of  the  things  I  wanted  most. 
If  you  would  go  to  Simpson's — not  Simpson's, 
you  know,  in  Sloane  Street,  nor  the  one  in  the 
Burlington  Arcade,  but  Simpson's  in  Wigmore 
Street,  the  great  shop  for  artificial  flowers — " 

"  You  need  not  be  at  so  much  trouble  to  con- 
ceal our  family  commotions,"  said  Sir  Ludovic ; 
"Randal  knows  all  about  it  better  than  either 
you  or  me." 

"Then  I  would  just  like  to  hear  what  he 
knows  !"  said  Mrs. Bellingham.  "I  don't  know 
anything  about  it  myself,  and  I  don't  think  I 
want  to  know.  Randal,  what  time  is  your  train  ? 
Will  you  be  able  to  stay  till  dinner,  or  can  I  give 
you  some  tea?  The  tea  will  be  here  directly, 
but  dinner  may  be  a  little  late  for  Aubrey,  who 
is  coming  by  quite  a  late  afternoon  train.  He 
said  he  had  business ;  but  you  young  men  you 
have  always  got  business.  To  hear  you,  one 
would  think  you  never  had  a  moment.  And, 
Ludovic,  just  sit  down  and  be  quiet,  and  not  fuss 
about  and  put  me  out  of  my  senses.  Now  I  will 
give  you  your  tea." 

Randal,  however,  did  not  stay  until  it  was  time 
for  his  train.  Signs  of  the  past  excitement  were 
too  strong  in  the  house  to  make  it  pleasant  to 
a  stranger;  and  Margaret  being  absent,  he  had 
small  interest  in  the  Grange.  He  took  his  leave, 
saying  he  would  take  a  stroll  and  look  at  the 
grounds  —  a  notion  much  encouraged  by  Mrs. 
Bellingham.  "Do  that,  Randal,"  she  said  ;  "I 
wish  I  were  not  so  tired,  I  would  go  with  you 
myself,  and  let  you  see  everything.  And  I'll  tell 
Grace  and  Margaret  you  were  very  sorry  not  to 
see  them,  but  time  and  trains  wait  for  no  man. 
You'll  give  my  kind  regards  to  your  excellent  fa- 
ther and  mother,  and  you'll  not  forget  the  wreaths 
at  Simpson's — plain  white  for  Margaret.  No, 
I'll  not  keep  you,  for  my  mind  is  occupied,  and  I 
know  I'm  not  an  amusing  companion.  Good- 
bye ;  I  hope  you  will  come  another  time,  Randal, 
when  we  expect  you,  and  when  we  will  be  able  to 
show  a  little  attention.     Good-bye !" 

Randal  went  away  with  a  smile  at  the  mean- 
ing that  lay  beneath  Mrs.  Bellingham's  signifi- 
cant words.  Should  he  ever  come  here  as  one 
who  was  expected,  and  who  had  a  claim  upon 
the  attention  she  promised  him  ?  He  looked 
wistfully  up  the  oak  staircase  and  at  the  winding 


passages,  by  some  of  which  Margaret  must  have 
gone.  Perhaps  she  would  never  know  that  he 
had  been  here.  And  at  the  same  time,  perhaps, 
it  was  better  that  he  should  not  see  her.  She 
was  rich,  while  as  yet  he  was  not  rich,  and  he 
had  no  right  to  say  anything  to  her;  while,  per- 
haps, if  they  met  at  this  moment  of  agitation,  it 
might  be  difficult  to  refrain  from  saying  some- 
thing. Thus  sadly  disappointed,  but  trying  to 
represent  to  himself  that  he  was  not  disappoint- 
ed, he  went  through  the  shrubbery  and  out  into 
the  little  park. 

How  different  it  was  from  old  Earl's -hall! 
Glimpses  of  the  old  red  house,  glowing  at  every 
corner  in  some  wealth  of  blossom,  early  roses 
climbing  everywhere,  wreaths  of  starry  clematis 
twisted  about  the  walls,  and  clusters  of  honey- 
suckle up  to  the  very  eaves,  came  to  him  through 
the  trees  at  every  turn  he  took.  So  full  of  color 
and  warmth,  and  set  in  the  brilliant  sunshine  of 
this  June  day.  warm  as  no  midsummer  ever  at- 
tains to  be  in  Fife — the  contrast  between  Marga- 
ret's old  home  and  her  new  one  struck  him 
strangely.  The  old  solemn  gray  walls,  the  keener, 
clearer  tones  of  the  landscape,  the  dark  masses 
of  ivy  about  the  half-ruinous  tower  of  EaiTs-hall, 
came  suddenly  before  his  eyes.  The  scene  was 
grayer  and  colder,  but  the  central  figure  had  been 
all  life  and  color  there.  Here  it  was  the  land- 
scape that  was  warm,  in  its  wealthy  background, 
and  she  that  was  pale,  in  her  dress  of  mourn- 
ing. 

He  was  thinking  this,  musing  of  her  and  noth- 
ing else,  when  he  suddenly  saw  a  shadow  glide 
softly  through  the  trees  and  stand  for  a  moment 
upon  a  little  rustic  bridge  over  the  small  stream 
which  flowed  at  a  distance  from  the  house.  He 
started  and  hurried  that  way,  striding  along  over 
the  grass  that  made  his  steps  noiseless.  And, 
sure  enough,  it  was  Margaret.  The  fresh  air 
was  a  more  familiar  restorative  than  "lying 
down,"  which  was  Jean's  panacea  for  agitation 
as  for  toothache.  She  was  standing  watching 
the  clear  running  water,  wondering  at  all  that  had 
happened — her  sob  scarcely  sobbed  out,  and  apt 
to  come  back  ;  her  eyes  not  yet  dry,  and  her  lips 
still  parted  with  that  quick  breath  which  told 
the  unstilled  beating  of  her  heart.  Poor  Rob! 
would  he  be  unhappy  ?  Her  heart  gave  a  special 
ache  for  him,  then  quivered  with  another  ques- 
tion: Was  Randal  angry?  Did  he  think  badly 
of  her,  that  he  would  not  speak  ? 

She  looked  up  hastily,  when  a  step  sounded 
close  to  her  on  the  path,  and  that  same  flutter- 
ing heart  gave  a  leap  of  terror.  Then  it  stilled 
into  sudden  relief  and  repose.  "Oh,  Randal! 
you  have  not  gone  away!"  she  cried;  and  her 
face,  that  had  been  so  passive,  lighted  up. 

"I  came  back,"  he  said;  and  the  two  stood 
looking  at  each  other  for  a  moment — he  on  one 
side  of  the  tinkling  water,  she  on  the  bridge. 
"But  I  am  going  away,"  he  added :  "Rob  has 
gone." 

"  Oh,  poor  Rob ! — he  was  very  kind  after  all : 
it  was  a  mistake,  only  a  mistake.  It  was  my 
fault.  1  did  not  like — to  hurt  his  feelings.  Yon 
should  never  let  any  one  think  a  thing  is  true 
that  is  not  true,  Randal.  It  is  as  bad  as  telling 
a  lie.  It  is  all  over  now,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  wistfully,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"And  you  are  glad  ?"  He  grudged  her  mois- 
tened eyes  and  the  sob  that  broke,  in  spite  of 


168 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH. 


her,  into  her  voice,  and  the  tone  with  which  she 
said  "poor  Rob !" 

Margaret  did  not  make  any  reply  to  this  ques- 
tion ;  she  looked  at  him  once  more  wistfully. 

"Were  you  angry,"  she  said,  "  that  you  would 
not  speak  ?  I  should  not  have  troubled  you, 
Randal,  but  my  heart  was  broken.  I  was  near- 
ly out  of  my  wits  with  terror.  I  did  not  know 
how  to  stand  out  and  keep  my  own  part.  Were 
you  angry,  Randal,  that  you  would  not  speak  ?" 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  "why  should  you  ask 
me  such  questions  ?  I  am  never  angry  with 
you ;  or,  if  I  am  angry,  it  is  for  love ;  because 
I  would  do  anything  you  ask  me,  even  against 
myself. " 

Margaret  smiled.  Her  eyes  filled  with  some- 
thing that  was  half  light  and  half  tears.  "And 
me  too  ! "  she  said. 

Thus,  without  any  grammar,  and  without  any 
explanation,  a  great  deal  was  said.  Randal  went 
to  his  train,  and  Margaret,  smiling  to  herself, 
went  home  across  the  bridge.  Both  Jean  and 
Grace  heard  her  singing  softly  as  she  went  up 
the  oak  staircase,  and  could  not  believe  their 
ears.  Grace  cried  more  bitterly  still  to  think 
that  her  darling  Margaret  should  show  so  little 
feeling,  and  Jean  was  dumfounded  that  she 
should  not  be  ashamed  of  herself — a  girl  just 
escaped  from  such  a  danger,  and  so  nearly  mixed 
up  in  a  horrible  story !  Sir  Ludovic,  who  had 
girls  of  his  own,  only  laughed  and  shook  his 
head.  "She  will  have  seen  the  right  one,"  he 
said,  with  a  gleam  of  amusement  to  himself. 
Perhaps  he  was  all  the  more  indulgent  that  Au- 
brey, who  was  clearly  Jean's  candidate,  and  far 
too  much  a  man  of  society  for  plain  Sir  Ludo- 
vic, arrived  with  the  cream  of  current  scandal, 
and  a  most  piquant  story  about  Lady  Grandton 


and  a  certain  Duke — "the  same  man,  you  know 
— all  come  on  again,  as  everybody  prophesied," 
that  very  night. 

Rob  Glen  set  off  within  forty-eight  hours  for 
the  other  side  of  the  world,  with  Jeanie  as  his 
wife.  He  had  not  much  more  money  than  would 
buy  the  license  that  made  this  possible,  and  pay 
his  passage,  and  would  have  faced  the  voyage 
and  the  New  World  without  either  outfit  or 
preparation  but  for  a  timely  present  of  a  hun- 
dred pounds  that  reached  him  the  night  before 
he  sailed.  But  he  never  spoke  of  this  even  to 
his  wife,  though  his  mother  was  aware  of  it, 
who  —  though  she  would  not  see  Jeanie  —  saw 
him,  and  dismissed  him  with  a  stormy  fare- 
well. 

"  Sir  Ludovic,  honest  man,  might  well  say  it 
was  a  heart-break  to  see  your  bairn  throw  him- 
sel'  away — little  we  kent,  him  and  me,  how  sooth 
he  was  speaking,"  Mrs.  Glen  said.  When  it  was 
all  over,  it  gave  her  a  little  consolation  to  quote 
Sir  Ludovic,  what  "he  said  to  me,  and  I  said  to 
him,"  when  she  met  him  "in  the  South." 

On  the  other  hand,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  it 
was  a  great  shock  to  Margaret  to  hear  what  had 
happened,  and  how  soon  and  how  completely  the 
baffled  suitor  had  consoled  himself.  "All  the 
time  it  was  Jeanie's  Rob,"  she  said  to  herself, 
with  a  scorching  blush  ;  and  for  the  moment  felt 
as  deeply  shamed  and  humbled  as  Rob  himself 
had  been  by  her  indifference.  And  when  Jean 
heard  of  these  two  or  three  words  with  Randal, 
which,  indeed,  as  Mrs.  Bellingham  said  indig- 
nantly, "settled  nothing — for  after  an  affair  of 
that  kind  what  is  to  hinder  her  having  a  dozen  ?" 
she  was  very  angry,  and  planted  thorns  in  Mar- 
garet's pillow.  But  Jean  will  not  be  supreme 
forever  over  her  little  sister's  life. 


THE  END. 


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THE  CHINA  HUNTERS  CLUB. 


By  Nathaniel 


THE  CERAMIC  ART.    By  Jennie  J.  Young. 
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SCIENTIFIC  MEMOIRS.    By  Dr.  J.  W.  Deapee. 

The  Atlantic  Islands. 

The  Atlantic  Islands  as  Resorts  of  Health  and  Pleasure.     By  S.  G.  W.  Benjamin,  Author 
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With  Hints  for  their  Improvement. 
Cloth.     (In  Press.) 


And  in  every  instance,  regarding  all  points  of  informa- 
tion, the  writer  has  gathered  his  facts  from  careful 
personal  observation  or  from  the  highest  author- 
ities. 

As  all  of  these  islands  have  been  recently  visited 
by  him,  he  has  thought  fit  to  leave  the  description 
of  them  in  their  original  narrative  form,  as  he  saw 
all  the  important  places  mentioned,  while  the  book 
may  thus  perhaps  be  rendered  more  attractive  to  the 
general  reader  by  the  introduction  of  incidents  of 
travel  and  adventure. 

The  Appendix,  although  placed  at  the  end,  really 
contains  the  pith  of  the  book.  It  is  intended  to  con- 
vey copious  information  regarding  the  attractions  of 
each  island  for  both  invalids  and  sportsmen,  sanitary 
statistics,  the  means  for  reaching  these  resorts,  and 
the  hotels  and  expenses  of  living. — Extract  from 
Preface. 


By  Nathaniel  Hillter  Eggleston.     Post  Svo, 


The  China  Hunters  Club. 


By  the  Youngest  Member.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 


A  book  wholly  unexampled  in  the  literature  of  old 
pottery  and  porcelain..  It  is,  in  this  literature,  what 
Izaak  Walton's  book  is  in  the  literature  of  angling.  A 
Club  of  China  Hunters  in  a  New  England  village 
search  old  houses  for  old  china,  gather  and  discuss 


tery  among  the  American  forefathers.  One  chapter 
describes  over  a  hundred  specimens  with  decorations 
relating  to  American  history.  While  the  author  has 
under  a  thin  veil  of  fiction  concealed  names  and 
places,  the  book  nevertheless  abounds  in  information 


it,  and  gather  as  well  many  old  family  stories  con-    not  elsewhere  attainable;  and  its  charming  style,  the 
nectedwith  the  treasures,  full  of  interest,  amusement,  '  exquisite  portrait  painting  of  New  England  charae- 


and  pathos.  Many  pieces  are  illustrated,  aud  a  brief 
introductory  chapter  by  Dr.  W.  C.  Prime  vouches  for 
the  genuineness  of  the  specimens,  and  the  extraordi- 
nary value  of  the  book  as  showing  the  history  of  pot- 


ters, the  adventures  of  the  China  Hunters  in  their 
searches,  and  the  information  brought  out  in  their 
meetings,  make  it  a  delightful  book  for  all  classes  of 
readers.  \ 


Harper  6°  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


Annual  Record  of  Science  and  Industry  for  1877, 

Prepared  by  Prof.  Spencer  F.  Baird,  Secretary  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution,  with  the 
Assistance  of  some  of  the  most  Eminent  Men  of  Science  in  the  United  States.  Large  12mo, 
Cloth,  $2  (JO.     (Uniform  with  the  volumes  for  1871,  1872,  1873,  1874,  1875,  and  1876.) 


The  information  presented  by  the  different  contrib- 
utors is  ample  in  detail,  exact  iu  statement,  clear  iu 
illustration,  aud  for  the  most  part  free  from  unintelli- 
gible technicalities,  and  with  the  popular  character 
suited  to  the  design  of  the  work.—  K  Y.  Tribune. 


The  book  gives  a  practical  and  concise  history  of  the 
progress  of  science  aud  the  work  of  the  scientists  iu 
all  their  varied  duties  during  the  past  year.  The  most 
eminent  men  treat  of  the  various  departments,  with 
which  they  are  familiar. — Boston  Post. 


A  Legacy,    Written  and  Edited  by  the  Author  of  "John  Halifax." 

A  Legacy  :  Being  the  Life  and  Remains  of  John  Martin,  Written  and  Edited  by  the  Author 
of  "  John  Halifax,  Gentleman."     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


A  history  so  touching,  so  marvellous,  and  so  sim- 
ple. Few  more  pathetic  or  more  instructive  vol- 
umes have  fallen  iu  our  way  —  Morning  Post,  Lou- 
don. 

A  remarkable  book.  It  records  the  life,  work, 
aspirations,  and  death  of  a  schoolmaster  aud  poet,  of 
lowly  birth  but  high-strung  aud  ambitious  soul.    His 


writings  brim  with  vivid  thought,  keen  analysis  of 
feeling,  touches  of  poetic  sentiment,  aud  trenchant 
criticism  of  men  and  books,  expressed  in  scholarly 
language. — Guardian,  Loudon. 

Mrs.  Craik  has  related  a  beautiful  and  pathetic  sto- 
ry—a story  of  faith  and  courage  and  untiring  energy. 
—Pall  Mall  Gazette,  London. 


English  Men  of  Letters.    Edited  by  John  Morley. 


These  short  books  are  addressed  to  the  general 
public,  with  a  view  both  to  stirring  and  satisfying  an 
interest  iu  literature  aud  its  great  topics  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  have  to  run  as  they  read.  An 
immense  class  is  growing  up  whose  education  has 
made  them  alive  to  the  importance  of  the  masters  of 


our  literature,  aud  capable  of  intelligent  curiosity  as 
to  their  performances.  The  series  is  intended  to 
give  the  means  of  nourishing  this  curiosity  to  an 
extent  that  shall  be  copious  enough  to  be  profitable 
for  knowledge  aud  life,  and  yet  be  brief  enough  to 
serve  those  whose  leisure  is  scanty. 


JOHNSON.     By  Leslie  Stephen.     12mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 
GIBBON.     By  J.  C.  Morison.     12mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 

Other  Volumes  in  Preparation. 

Mine  is  Thine. 

A  Novel.     By  L.  W.  M.  Lockhart,  Author  of  "  Fair  to  See."    8vo,  Paper,  40  cents. 
Its  qualities  are  a  good  literary  style,  great  brisk-  I  arranged  as  to  hold  the  reader's  closest  attention  to 
ness  of  narration,  and  strongly  dramatic  incidents  so  [  the  very  end.— X  1".  Evening  Post. 


The  School  and  the  Family. 


The  Ethics  of  School  Relations.     By  John  Kennedy,  Instructor  in  Teachers'  Institutes 
lGmo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

Every  teacher  should  have  the  book,  for  it  has  a 
great  deal  of  sound  advice.  The  author's  tabular 
analysis  of  the  relations  of  district,  parents,  children, 
and  teacher  is  the  clearest  statement  we  have  seen  on 
the  subject,  and  crowds  all  the  philosophy  of  school- 
teaching  iuto  a  nutshell.— Troy  Press. 

An  able  aud  timely  little  volume,  evidently  the  re- 
sult of  thought  and  study  on  the  part  of  one  prac- 
tically conversant  with  the  subject.  —  Lutheran  Ob- 
server, Philadelphia. 


This  is  a  very  sensible  and  important  little  manual. 
It  considers  nearly  every  phase  of  the  question  of 
school  discipline.  It  has  also  valuable  chapters  upon 
school  ethics— one  of  the  most  delicate  aud  most  vital 
of  subjects.  The  volume  should  be  carefully  studied 
by  teachers,  and  will  be  profitably  read  by  parcuts, 
and  all  friends  of  public  education  aud  guardiaus  of 
the  young.— Zion's  Herald,  Boston. 

Should  be  read  by  all  interested  in  the  subject  of 
educatiou.—  Western  Christian  Advocate,  Cincinnati. 


The  Student's  French  Grammar. 


A   Practical   and  Historical    Grammar    of  the   French    Language.     By  Charles   Heron 

Wall,  late  Assistant-Master   at  Brighton   College  ;  Author  of  an  English  Translation  of 

Moliere ;    Member   of  the    Philological    Society.      With    an   Introduction    by   E.  Littre, 

Member  of  the  French  Academv.      For  the  Use  of  Colleges  and  Schools.      12mo,  Cloth, 

$1  40. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  point  more  clearly  to  the    and  correctness  which  I  found  there."    Mr.  Wall  in 

value  of  Mr.  Wall's  work,  which  is  intended  for  the    the  first  part  of  his  book  deals  with  the  growth  of  the 

use  of  colleges  and  schools,  than  by  quoting  what    Freuch  language,  and  ou  this  M.  Littre"  remarks  that 

M.  Littre"  says  of  it  in  an  introductory  letter:   "I    his  respect  for  the  historical  development  of  the  lau- 

have  carefully  tested  the  principal  parts  of  your  work,    gnage  has  made  his  footing  sure.— Saturday  Pecieu; 

and  have  been  completely  satisfied  with  the  accuracy    Loudon. 


Haiper  6°  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


Holly's  Modern  Dwellings. 


Modern  Dwellings  in  Town  and  Country,  adapted  to  American  Wants  and  Climate.     In  a 

Series  of  One  Hundred  Original  Designs,  comprising  Cottages,  Villas,  and  Mansions.     With 

a  Treatise  on  Furniture  "and  Decoration.      By  II.  Hudson  Holly.      8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

No  feature  of  a  house,  whether  important  or  insig-  |  nres.  *  *  *  There  is  little  doubt  that  the  volume  will 

niticaut,  fails  to  receive  its  due  share  of  attention.**  *    prove,  as  its  author  suggests  in  his  preface,  "a  prac- 

The  practical,  sensible  directions  of  Mr.  Holly's  book  i  tical  and  reliable  guide  for  those  persons  who  wish  to 

are  numberless,  and  give  it  a  character  uulike  many  |  build,  furnish,  aud  beautify  their  houses  without  au 

works,  whose  suggestions  argue  au  inordinately  pie-  I  extravagant  outlay  of  money." — Boston  Transcript. 

thoric  purse  aud  limitless  cultivation  in  art.    He  is  a        Mr.  Holly's  designs  are  not  only  tasteful,  but  his 

business  man,  and  deals  in  plans,  specifications,  and  ;  plaus  are  arranged  with  an  eye  to  comfort,  plenty  of 

estimates.    His  volume  contains  many  original  de-    closet  room,  and  a  convenient  arrangement  of  rooms. 

signs  of  cottages,  mansions,  and  villas,  accompanied    *  *  *  The  hints  are  generally  good  in  household  art, 

by  complete  descriptions  in  which  the  material,  dimeu-  j  and  any  one  about  to  build  will  find  it  worth  his  while 

sions,  and  cost  of  building  are  distinctly  stated  in  fig-  I  to  consult  Mr.  Holly's  book.— N.  Y.  Herald. 

History  of  the  English  People.    By  John  Richard  Green,  If. A., 

Author  of  "A  Short  History  of  the  English  Feople,"  "Stray  Studies  from  England  and 
Italy."  In  Five  Volumes.  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50  per  volume.  Vols.  I.  and  II.  ready; 
Vol.  III.  in  preparation. 

A  Modern  Minister. 

{The  Cheveley  Novels.]  A  Modern  Minister.  A  Novel.  Illustrated.  In  Two  Volumes. 
8vo,  Paper.     Vol.  I.,  35  cents;  Vol.  II.,  40  cents. 


A  strong,  well  constructed,  aud  skilfully  elaborated 
novel. — y.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

Very  fresh  and  readable. — Methodist  Protestant, 
Baltimore. 

Able  and  interesting.  —Rochester  Express. 


A  strange  and  curious  story Cincinnati  Times. 

It  is  a  story  which  has  been  much  admired,  aud  has 
many  attractions  for  the  reader.— Xew  Bedford  Mer- 
cury. 

A  powerful   aud   curious   novel.  — Worcester  Spy. 


Liddell  and  Scott's  Greek-English  Lexicon. 


A  Greek-English  Lexicon.  Compiled  by  Henry  George  Liddell,  D.D.,  Dean  of  Christ 
Church,  and  Robert  Scott,  D.D.,  Dean  of  Rochester,  late  Master  of  Balliol  College.  Sixth 
Edition,  Revised  aud  Augmented.  4to,  Sheep,  $11  00.  Abridged  Edition,  Small  4to,  Half 
Leather,  $2  35. 


•  "Deans  Liddell  and  Scott,  of  Oxford  University, 
founded  their  first  Greek-English  Lexicon  upon  Pas- 
sow's  work,  and  this  was  again  revised  and  greatly 
improved  by  Professor  Drisler,  of  New  York,  in  its 
republication  in  America.  But  the  Oxford  deans  have 
spent  thirty  years  since  that  time  in  the  further  im- 
provement of  their  successive  editions ;  and  the  sixth, 
which  is  now  before  us,  is  again  a  marked  advance 
upon  every  predecessor. 

"The  sixth  edition  differs  from  former  editions 
mainly  in  the  greater  fulness  with  which  the  forms 


of  verbs  are  treated,  in  the  addition  of  a  large  number 
of  meanings  aud  uses,  especially  from  the  later  Attic 
prose,  aud  in  the  enlargement  and  correction  of  the 
etymological  notices.  Many  of  the  most  important 
particles  are  also  discussed  more  satisfactorily  than 
before.  The  printer's  duty  has  been  done  in  a  way 
to  charm  the  scholar's  eye,  the  page  being  the  most 
beautiful  we  have  ever  seen  in  such  a  work.  The  book 
is  of  course  a  necessity  to  all  who  wish,  in  the  study  of 
the  most  perfect  of  languages,  or  in  reading  the  most 
magnificent  of  literatures,  to  have  the  best  guidance." 


An  Open  Verdict. 

A  Novel.  By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon,  Author  of  "  Taken  at  the  Flood,"  "  Dead  Men's  Shoes," 
"Weavers  and  Weft,"  "Joshua  Haggard's  Daughter,"  &c.     8vo,  Faper,  35  cents. 

Shakespeare's  As  Yon  Like  It.    Edited  by  W.  J.  Rolfe. 

Shakespeare's  Comedy  of  As  You  Like  It.  Edited,  with  Notes,  by  William  J.  Rolfe,  A.M., 
formerly  Head  Master  of  the  High  School,  Cambridge,  Mass.  With  Engravings.  lGmo, 
Cloth,  70  cents. 

Uniform  with  Rolfe' s  English  Classics:  The  Merchant  of  Venice. — Julius  Caesar. — The 
Tempest. — Henry  VIII. — Richard  II. — Macbeth. — A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream. — 
Henry  V. — Goldsmith's  Select  Poems. — Gray's  Select  Poems.  lGmo,  Cloth,  Illustrated, 
70  cents  per  volume. 


"As  Yon  Like  It,"  edited  by  Mr.  William  J.  Rolfe, 
appears  in  the  same  form  that  characterized  the 
eight  earlier  volumes  of  the  series.  The  same  high 
praise  that  we  have  bestowed  upon  its  predecessors 
may  be  conscientiously  applied  to  this.  The  comedy 
is  prefaced  by  an  introduction  discussing  its  history, 
and  giving  copious  selections  from  critical  comments 


upon  it.  In  the  appendix  will  be  found  interesting 
extracts  from  Lodge's  novel,  upon  which  the  play 
was  founded,  and  sixty -seven  pages  of  notes.  In 
point  of  utility  and  interest,  this  edition  of  Shake- 
speare may  be  ranked  with  any  of  the  more  osten- 
tatious and  expensive  forms  in  which  it  has  been 
issued.— Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 


Harper  6°  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


The  Ceramic  Art. 


A  Compendium  of  the  History  and  Manufacture  of  Pottery  and  Porcelain.     By  Jennie  J. 
Young.     Witli  iOi  Illustrations.     8vo,  Cloth.     (Just  Ready.) 


This  work  has  heen  arranged  upon  so  comprehen- 
sive a  plan  that  it  must  meet  the  requirements  of  ev- 
ery one  interested  in  ceramic  art  or  any  of  its  branch- 
es. An  unusually  full  and  carefully  compiled  index 
makes  it  invaluable  as  a  book  of  reference.  Potters, 
artists,  and  all  who,  either  by  profession,  taste,  or  a 
thirst  for  information  of  a'practical  kind,  are  attract- 
ed by  the  technology  and  methods  of  the  ceramic  art, 
will  be  amply  gratified  by  the  section  devoted,  to  ma- 
terials—the analysis  and  mode  of  preparation  of  the 
ingredients,  glazes,  and  colors  of  all  the  principal 
wares  of  the  world  being  given  at  length— .and  to 
the  many  processes  by  which  vases  and  table  wares 
become  in  form  and  decoration  entitled  to  be  ranked 
with  works  of  art.  The  general  principles  of  the  art, 
as  they  can  be  gathered  from  a  comparative  review 
of  distinctive  national  styles,  are  fully  explained. 
Their  application  to  a  critical  estimate  of  the  works 
of  the  potter  is  also  pointed  out. 

The  historical  part  of  the  book  covers  more  ground 
than  any  previous  work.  While  the  earliest  relics  of 
the  potters  of  Egypt  and  the  East,  the  famous  old 
wares  of  China  and  Japan,  the  mediaeval  wonders 
of  Spain,  Italy,  and  France,  are  described  at  length, 
due  space  is  also  given  to  the  modern  European  fac- 
tories, manufacturers,  and  artists  — Deck,  Haviland, 

Less  Black  than  We're  Painted. 

A  Novel.     By  James  Payn,  Author  of  "Won  — Not  Wooed,"  "What  He  Cost  Her," 
"Murphy's  Master,"  "By  Proxy,"  "Cecil's  Tryst,"  "A  Beggar  on  Horseback,"  "Best  of 
Husbands,"  "At  Her  Mercy,"  &c.     Svo,  Paper,  35  cents. 
The  most  powerful  and  deeply  interesting  romance  ever  written  by  its  brilliant  author.—  Baltimore  Gazette. 

The  History  of  a  Crime:  the  Testimony  of  an  Eye«Witness. 

Bv  Victor  Hugo,  Author  of  "The  Toilers  of  the  Sea,"  "Ninety-Three,"  &c.  Illustrated. 
Complete  in  2  Parts,  8vo,  Paper,  25  cents  each.     Complete  in  One  Volume,  10  cents. 

Draper's  Scientific  Memoirs. 

Scientific  Memoirs,  being  Experimental  Contributions  to  a  Knowledge  of  Radiant  Energy. 
By  John  William  Draper,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  President  of  the  Faculty  of  Science  in  the 
University  of  New  York,  Author  of  "A  Treatise  on  Human  Physiology,"  "History  of  the 
Intellectual  Development  of  Europe,"  "History  of  the  American  Civil  War,"  &c.  With 
a  Portrait.     Svo.     (In  Press.) 


Minton,  Solon,  Doulton,  Copeland,  Belleek,  Copenha- 
gen, Bourg-la-reine,  and  many  others  whose  works 
have  not  hitherto  secured  a  place  in  the  literature  of 
ceramics.  Many  new  points  have  been  made  in  writ- 
ing of  China,  and  the  chapter  devoted  to  Japan  throws 
over  that  country  a  flood  of  light  which  will  be  wel- 
come to  all  who  have  felt  the  fascination  of  Oriental 
art.  The  narrative  throughout  is  enlivened  by  bio- 
graphical sketches  of  eminent  potters  and  incidents 
in  their  lives,  and  by  mauy  historical  episodes  in  the 
careers  of  famous  men  and  women  who  exercised  au 
influence  upon  the  development  of  the  art. 

The  section  devoted  to  America  contains  full  de- 
tails of  the  potteries  of  the  Peruvians,  Brazilians, 
Central  Americaus,  Mound-builders,  Pueblos,  and  In- 
dians, aud  also  of  the  modern  potters  and  artists  of 
the  United  States,  down  to  the  present  year.  In  the 
language  of  the  preface,  the  author  has  "  endeavored 
to  convey  some  idea  of  America's  wealth  in  material, 
and  of  the  present  condition  and  tendencies  of  the 
industry,  and  to  do  justice  to  those  who  have  laid  the 
foundations  of  its  claim  to  recognition  in  the  world 
of  art."  The  work  is  illustrated  with  upwards  of 
four  hundred  and  sixty  engravings  of  specimens, 
chosen,  in  a  great  measure,  from  the  public  and  pri- 
vate collections  of  America. 


"This  book  occupies  an  interesting  position  in 
American  science.  It  contains  a  narrative  of  an  ex- 
tensive series  of  experiments  made  in  the  University 
of  New  York  by  its  author  on  various  chemical  and 
physical  topics,  between  1830  and  1S70,  chiefly  in  con- 
nection with  light,  radiant  heat,  and  electricity.  The 
memoirs  of  which  it  is  composed  have  been  published 
in  most  modern  languages;  they  form  a  portion  of 
the  current  scientific  literature.  Their  value  has 
been  distinguished  by  the  American  Academy  of  Arts 
aud  Science  in  the  award  of  the  Rumford  Medal  to 
their  author — the  highest  testimonial  of  approbation 
that  American  Science  has  to  bestow  on  those  who  in 
our  country  have  devoted  themselves  to  the  enlarge- 
ment of  knowledge. 

"  The  reader  will  find  here  the  early  contribntions  of 
American  science  to  spectrum  analysis  and  photogra- 
phy ;  the  discovery  of  invisible  fixed  lines  in  the  sun- 
light, which  more  than  doubled  the  number  of  visi- 
ble ones  previously  known  ;  the  application  both  of 
the  spectroscope  and  photograph  to  astronomical  in- 
vestigations, as  to  the  condition  of  the  sun's  surface 
and  pictures  of  the  moon  ;  the  description  of  instru- 
ments for  measuring  the  intensity  and  chemical  action 


of  light ;  the  examination  of  the  phosphorescence  of 
such  bodies  as  the  diamond,  and  the  effect  of  heat 
upon  them  ;  the  mode  in  which  the  yellow  rays  of 
light  maintain  unimpaired  the  composition  of  the  at- 
mosphere by  placing  oxygen  in  it ;  the  photographic 
employment  of  the  diffractive  spectrum  ;  the  existence 
of  invisible  phantom  images  on  surfaces,  and  the 
methods  of  bringing  them  into  view  ;  the  process  of 
taking  portraits  from  the  life  by  photography,  which 
was  invented  by  the  author,  he  having  taken  the  first 
ever  made  ;  the  electromotive  power  of  heat ;  the  dis- 
tribution of  heat  and  chemical  force  in  the  spectrum  ; 
the  chemical  effects  of  burning  glasses,  and  many  oth- 
er physical  and  physiological  topics. 

"  No  American  public  or  private  library  ought  to  be 
without  this  book.  In  the  national  contests  every 
day  becoming  sharper  for  the  credit  of  priority  in  sci- 
entific discoveries,  the  claims  of  America  in  many  im- 
portant particulars  will  depend  on  these  memoirs. 
They  therefore  possess  no  common  recommendation 
to  the  patronage  of  our  people.  Written  in  clear  and 
simple  language,  divested  of  everything  like  scientific 
repulsiveness,  they  can  be  readily  understood  and  ap- 
preciated by  every  one." 


Harper  &*  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


The  Vova^e  of  the  "  Challenger." 


The  Atlantic 
the  eat 


tlantic :  an  Account  of  the  General  Results  of  the  Voyage  during  the  year  1873  and 
v„.ly  part  of  the  year  187G.  By  Sir  C.  Wyville  Thomson,  P.R.S.  With  a  Portrait 
of  the  Author  engraved  by  C.  H.  Jeens,  many  Colored  Maps,  Temperature  Charts,  and  Illustra- 
tions engraved  by  J.  D.  Cooper,  from  Drawings  by  J.  J.  Wyld.  Published  by  Authority  of 
the  Lords  Commissioners  of  the  Admiralty. 


Few  recent  books  of  travel  will  be  found  to  possess 
a  greater  degree  of  interest  for  the  intelligent  reader, 
regarded  either  as  a  storehouse  of  rare  aud  important 
information,  or  a  specimen  of  vigorous  and  attractive 
composition.  Sir  Wyville  Thomson  is  a  master  of  the 
pen  as  well  as  of  scientific  instruments.  He  possesses 
the  instinctive  judgment  and  cultivated  taste  which 
lead  him  to  select  the  appropriate  words  for  the  ex- 
pression of  his  ideas.*  *  *  His  absolute  simplicity  of 
expression  indicates  a  natural,  unaffected  character, 
and  calls  forth  equal  esteem  for  the  man  and  admira- 
tion of  the  writer.  The  illustrations  of  the  work  are 
of  great  value,  presenting  the  facts  related  in  the  let- 
ter-press in  a  visible  form,  and  are  no  less  attractive 
as  specimens  of  art  than  informing  as  elucidations  of 
science. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

Sir  Wyville  Thomson's  style  is  particularly  attrac- 
tive ;  he  is  easy  aud  graceful,  but  vigorous  aud  ex- 
ceedingly happy  in  the  choice  of  language,  and 
throughout  the  work  there  are  touches  which  show 
that  science  has  not  banished  sentiment  from  his 
bosom.—  London  Times. 


by  J.  J.  Wyld. 
2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $i: 

The  clearness  aud  simplicity  of  the  style,  the  singu- 
lar caution  aud  candor  of  statement,  the  elegant  ty- 
pography and  admirable  engravings,  the  vast  array 
of  facts  preseuted  with  copious  detail  and  excellent 
classification,  carrying  with  them  evident  demonstra- 
tion of  ninny  truths  of  higher  scientific  value,  and 
furnishing  abundaut  material  for  systematic  induction 
aud  further  establishment  of  important  principles, 
give  the  work  a  claim  to  an  honored  position  among 
the  volumes  that  compose  the  literature  of  science, 
as  well  as  a  title  to  the  consideration  of  all  who  are 
interested  in  new  truths  regarding  the  mysteries  of 
creation N.  Y.  Times. 

The  general  reader  who  is  not  concerned  with 
scientific  details  will  find  abundant  interest  in  the  de- 
scription of  various  places  visited  in  the  course  of  the 
expedition,  especially  that  of  Bermudas,  with  its  coral 
reefs  and  "iEolian"  or  wind-formed  rocks,of  the  Falk- 
land Islands, and  of  Tristan  d'Acunha,the  most  remote 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  of  all  human  residences. 
*  *  *  The  style  is  clear  and  unpretending.and  sometimes 
rises  into  picturesque  description.— Spectator,  London. 


Macaulay's  History  of  England, 


New  Edition  of  Lord  Macaulay's  History  of  England,  from  New  Electrotype  Plates,  printed 
from  the  Last  English  Edition,  with  all  of  Lord  Macaulay's  Corrections  very  carefully 
Examined  and  Revised.  Harper's  Elegant  Library  Edition,  Small  8vo,  Bevelled  Boards, 
Gilt  Top,  Superfine  Paper,  and  English  Cloth  Binding.     Five  Volumes.     (In  Press.) 

This  will  be  the  best  edition  of  Macaulay.  In  order  to  supply  the  demand  for  a  really 
elegant  edition  of  this  standard  work  great  expense  has  been  incurred  in  making  new 
electrotype  plates  from  new  type,  and  this  may  confidently  be  recommended  as  the  most 
accurate  and  attractive  edition  for  libraries. 

•ST  Harper  &  Brothers  will  also  publish  elegant  editions  of  Hume's  England  and 
Gibbon's  Rome,  from  new  plates,  uniform  with  Macaulay's  England. 


Hill's  Rhetoric. 

The  Principles  of  Rhetoric,  and  their  Application.  By  Adams  S.  Hill,  Boylston  Professor 
of  Rhetoric  and  Oratory  in  Harvard  College.  With  an  Appendix  comprising  General 
Rules  for  Punctuation.     12mo,  Half  Leather,  $1  17. 


We  commend  the  book  to  all  educators  of  youth, 
aud  we  particularly  advise  those  who  are  seeking  to 
educate  themselves  in  English  composition  to  make  a 
thorough  study  of  its  pages.— Christian  at  Work,  N.  Y. 

It  is  succinct,  clear,  and  pithy,  aud  covers  the  sub- 
ject adequately.  *  *  *  Evidently  the  result  of  practical 
experience  in  the  class-room.— X.  Y.  World. 


The  arrangement  of  the  work  is  excellent,  its  style 
is  clear,  and  it  is  in  all  respects  a  desirable  and  a  use- 
ful manual  for  students.— Saturday  Evening  Gazette, 
Boston. 

Professor  Hill's  style  is  plain  and  direct,  and  his 
book  deserves  an  immediate  and  permanent  place  in 
the  schools  of  the  country.—  Boston  Transcript. 


De  Mille's  Rhetoric.  • 

The  Elements  of  Rhetoric.     By  James  De  Mille,  M.A.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  40. 


Its  principles  are  sound,  its  arrangement  logical- 
ly systematic,  its  style  unusually  attractive.  One 
marked  and  very  praiseworthy  feature  is  the  copi- 
ous and  felicitous  way  iu  which  the  author  illustrates 
the  rules  laid  down.  No  rhetorical  principle  is 
formulated,  but  the  practical  working  of  it  is  clearly 
showu  by  an  appropriate  quotation.  Thus  each  law 
of  composition  is  brought  home  with  the  greatest 
possible  force  to  the  reader's  mind.  —  Philadelphia 
Inquirer. 


A  comprehensive  book.  *  *  *  Its  distinctive  merits 
are  comprehensiveness,  thoroughness,  and  concise- 
ness, with  aptness,  fulness,  and  clearness  of  illustra- 
tion.— Boston  Advertiser. 

It  is  the  production  of  a  scholar  of  excelleut  tastes 
and  a  wide  range  of  reading,  and  habits  of  accurate 
thinking.— Howie  Journal,  N.  Y. 

It  is  an  eminently  well-written  book,  and  offers  iu 
itself  a  good  example  of  the  art  of  which  it  is  the  ex- 
ponent— Boston  Transcript. 


Harper  6-»  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


Franklin  Square  Library. 

The  "Franklin  Square  Library"  puts  within  the 
reach  of  the  public,  at  the  very  lowest  rates,  some  of 
the  most  valuable  literary  productions  of  the  day.  *  *  * 
These  works  are  clearly  printed,  with  large  type  and 
excellent  paper  j  and  yet  the  price  of  most  of  them  is 
only  ten  cents  each.  For  summer  reading  nothing 
could  be  more  convenient  or  economical  than  the  num- 
bers of  the  "Franklin  Square  Library." — IS.  Y.  Sun. 

All  success  to  the  "  Franklin  Square  Library,"  which 
gives  to  a  man  for  ten  or  fifteen  cents  what  he  has 
heretofore  paid  a  dollar  and  a  half  for.— JS.  Y.  Herald. 


This  series  is  decidedly  the  most  praiseworthy  at- 
tempt to  popularize  the  best  class  of  literature  that 
has  ever  been  made  iu  this  country.— Saturday  Even- 
ing  Gazette,  Boston. 

Never  was  so  much  choice  reading-matter  published 
in  such  excellent  style  at  so  low  a  price. — Troy  Press. 

Convenient,  neatly  printed,  and  exceedingly  cheap. 
— S.  &  Times,  Philadelphia. 

The  "Franklin,  Square  Library"  may  be  best  and 
briefly  characterized  as  the  cheapest  publication  iu 
the  world.—  Philadelphia  Press. 


1.  IS  HE  POPENJOY?    A  Novel.     By  Anthony  Trollope.     15  cents. 

Anthony  Trollope  has  never  written  a  more  satisfactory  novel. — X  Y.  Herald. 

Very  entertaining,  and  in  Mr.  Trollope's  best  vein. — Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

The  most  readable  story  that  Mr.  Trollope  recently  has  given  to  the  public.  *  *  *  The  story  is 
cleverly  constructed  and  thoroughly  well  written.—  Hartford  Courant. 

Anthony  Trollope's  latest  novel,  like  all  the  rest  of  this  marvellously  gifted  writer's  productions,  will 
command  the  admiring  notice  of  thousands  of  readers  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic— Baltimore  Gazette. 

Is  the  favorite  of  the  moment.  *  *  *  The  story  will  be  followed  with  interest ;  the  characters  are  well 
drawn,  consistently  developed,  and  thoroughly  natural The  Week,  London. 


2.  THE  HISTORY  OF  A  CRIME.     By  Victor  Hcgo.     10  cents. 
No  novel  can  compare  with  it  in  interest. — Atlantic  Monthly. 

A  terribly  fascinating  narrative,  picture,  drama,  that  is  here  given,  re-enacting  before  our  own  eyes 
the  scenes  of  a  stormy  epoch.— Advance,  Chicago. 


3.  THE  RUSSIANS  OF  TO-DAY.     10  cents. 

The  brilliant  work  on  The  .Russians  of  To-Day  is  one  of  the  most  animated  and  interesting  pictures 
of  the  Eussiau  empire  and  people  that  the  peculiar  relations  of  that  power  to  Europe  have  called  out.— 
Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

A  book  that  every  one  should  read  who  takes  the  slightest  interest  in  the  great  question  of  the 
hour.—  N.  Y.  Herald. 

There  is  much  brilliant  writing  in  this  book. — Examiner,  London. 

4.  PAUL  KNOX,  PITMAN.    A  Novel.     By  John  Berwick  Harwood.    10  cents. 

"A  pathetic  story  of  mining  life,  full  of  incident,  and  strong  in  character  painting." 

5.  MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.    A  Novel.    By  the  Author  of  "The  Sun-Maid." 

10  cents. 
A  pleasant  book.  *  *  *  It  tells  its  story  well  and  spiritedly.—  Academy,  Loudon. 

6.  HENRIETTE.    A  Novel.     Translated  from  the  French  of  Ernest  Datjdet  by  Laura  E. 

Kendall.     10  cents. 

"A  work  of  decided  power  and  considerable  interest.  The  translation  appears  to  have  been  made 
with  knowledge  and  care." 


7.  CHRISTINE  BROWNLEE'S  ORDEAL.     A  Novel.     By  Mart  Patrick,  Author  of 

"Marjorie  Bruce's  Lovers."     15  cents. 

"This  is  a  bright  and  pleasantly  written  love  story,  readable  and  entertaining,  with  an  interest  that 
is  well  sustained  to  the  end." 

8.  A  BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN.     A  Novel.     By  Leon  Brook.     10  cents. 

"A  well  written  and  interesting  story,  describing  scenes  of  great  attractiveness  to  the  lovers  of 
exciting  fiction." 


By  Proxy,  • 

A  Novel.     By  James  Payn,  Author  of  "Won— Not  Wooed,"  "The  Best  of  Husbands," 
"At  Her  Mercy,"  "Murphy's  Master,"  &c.     8vo,  Paper,  35  cents. 


The  Wreck  of  the  "Grosvcnon" 


An  Account  of  the  Mutiny  of  the  Crew  and  the  Loss  of  the  Ship  when  Trying  to  Make 

the  Bermudas.     8vo,  Paper,  30  cents. 

rare  an  order,  managed  with  such  an  uncommon  de- 
gree of  skill,  as  to  convince  one  that  it  must  be  the 
work  of  some  writer  of  fiction  of  acknowledged  stand- 
ing.— The  Nation,  N.  Y. 


We  have  seldom  met  with  a  novel  calculated  to  in- 
spire the  reader  with  a  more  lively  curiosity  as  to  its 
authorship  than  the  "Wreck  of  the  Grosvenor."  From 
the  first  line  to  the  last  it  is  marked  by  power  of  so 


HOLLY'S  MODEM  DWELLINGS. 

Modern  Dwellings  in  Town  and  Country,  adapted  to  American  Wants 
and  Climate :  In  a  Series  of  One  Hundred  Original  Designs,  com- 
prising Cottages,  Villas,  and  Mansions.  "With  a  Treatise  on  Furni- 
ture and  Decoration.     By  II.  Hudson  Holly.     8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 


No  one  has  dealt  with  this  snbjoct  in  a  more  practi- 
cal and  straightforward  manner  than  Mr.  Holly.  It 
is  only  necessary  to  turn  the  leaves  of  the  volume  he 
now  offers  to  the  public  In  the  most  casual  manner  to 
be  convinced  that  he  speaks  with  the  voice  of  one 
having  authority.  He  is  an  architect  himself,  and 
the  subject  with  which  he  deals  is  one  with  which  the 
labor  of  years  has  made  him  perfectly  familiar.  The 
improvement  he  desires  to  effect  is  of  a  nature  to 
contribute  to  the  comfort  while  it  adds  to  the  ele- 
gance of  our  dwellings.  He  is  business-like ;  for  his 
volume  abounds  in  plans,  designs,  specifications,  and 
estimates.  In  short,  he  has  attacked  his  work  not  in 
the  character  of  a  litterateur,  but  after  the  manner  of 
a  man  who  aims  to  prepare  what  he  calls  in  his  pref- 
ace "  a  practical  and  reliable  guide  for  those  persons 
who  wish  to  build,  furnish,  and  beautify  their  houses 
without  an  extravagant  outlay  of  money."  —  K  Y. 
Times. 

Mr.  Holly's  designs  are  not  only  tasteful,  but  his 
plans  are  arranged  with  an  eye  to  comfort,  plenty  of 
closet  room,  and  a  convenient  arrangement  of  rooms. 
— N,  Y.  Herald. 

Can  be  safely  trusted  as  an  authority  on  every  sub- 
ject of  which  it  treats Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

Mr.  Holly  has  succeeded  in  investing  the  subject 
with  a  great  deal  of  interest.  *  *  *  The  designs  and 
plans  of  this  volume  are  so  simple  and  artistic  that 
they  can  but  delight  all  readers Brooklyn  Eagle. 

The  work  of  Mr.  Holly  is  eminently  sensible  and 
practical.  *  *  *  The  suggestions  as  to  expense,  orna- 
mentation, and  furniture  and  decoration,  if  read  and 
followed,  would  save  amateur  builders  much  money, 
and  secure  them  much  more  satisfactory  results  for 
their  outlays.— Zion's  Herald,  Boston. 

A  most  tasteful,  sensible,  and  beautiful  little  trea- 
tise on  a  subject  of  practical  importance  as  yet  far 
from  being  generally  understood.  *  *  *  Mr.  Holly 
writes  with  an  architect's  skill  and  fulness  of  knowl- 
edge.— Congregalionalist,  Boston. 

The  handsomest  architectural  volume  we  have  yet 
seen. — Observer,  N.  Y. 

For  those  "  who  wish  to  build,  furnish,  and  beautify 
their  houses  without  an  extravagant  outlay  of  mon- 
ey," this  is  the  book. — Philadelphia  Press. 

The  book  abounds  hi  information  of  value.— Chris- 
tian Advocate,  N.  Y. 

It  is  very  useful  and  practical.  All  the  important 
details  of  domestic  architecture  are  treated  in  a  way 
to  be  at  once  intelligible  and  interesting  to  the  ordi- 
nary reader.— Watchman,  Boston. 

Exquisite  taste  is  exhibited  in  the  whole  book. — 
Methodist  Protestant,  Baltimore. 


Nothing  could  be  more  timely  and  useful  than  a 
practical  and  trustworthy  guide  for  that  numerous 
class  of  persons  who  wish  to  build,  furnish,  and  beau- 
tify their  houses  without  a  large  outlay  of  money.  **  * 
The  precise  kind  of  information  needed  is  supplied 
by  a  book  before  us— "Modern  Dwellings." — X.  Y. 
Sun. 

No  feature  of  a  house,  whether  important  or  insig- 
nificant, fails  to  receive  its  due  share  of  attention. 
*  *  *  The  practical,  sensible  directions  of  Mr.  Holly's 
book  are  numberless.  *  *  *  In  regard  to  the  art  illus- 
trations of  the  volume,  they  are  executed  in  the  most 
careful  manner,  figures  and  scenery  being  introduced 
so  that  the  effect  of  a  dwelling  or  apartment  may  be 
distinctly  seen Boston  Transcript. 

The  work  is  such  a  treatise  as  thousands  who  con- 
template bnilding,  altering,  furnishing,  ornamenting 
and  repairing,  will  be  glad  to  get.  *  *  *  What  is  said 
is  clear  and  practical,  and  something  is  stated  npoij 
every  branch  of  home  creation  from  tbe  cellar  aud 
drain  and  water  and  gas  pipes  to  the  trees,  roads  and 
paths — the  china  and  silverware,  draperies  and  crock- 
ery. It  is  a  book  for  all  households  to  etniy.-^Phil- 
adelphia  North  American. 

Mr.  Holly's  work  is  entertaining  and  instructive 
from  beginning  to  conclusion,  as  it  covers  the  whole 
subject  in  a  thoroughly  intelligent  and  admirable 
manner.—  Philadelphia  Item. 

This  volume  differs  from  every  other  of  the  kind 
which  any  of  our  American  publishers,  so  far  as  we 
are  aware,  have  given  us.  It,  indeed,  supplies  hints 
how  to  furnish  houses,  or  rather  how  to  beautify  our 
homes.  But  it  is  also  something  more.  It  is  a  prac- 
tical hand-book  of  house  architecture.  *  *  *  When  we 
pay  there  is  scarcely  a  subject  relating  to  house  build- 
ing and  house  furnishing  which  is  not  treated  of  in 
Mr.  Holly's  work  the  reader  will  understand  some- 
what the  nature  of  the  service  which  our  author  has 
rendered  in  this  admirable  book.  It  is  a  rare  combi- 
nation of  the  useful,  the  beautiful,  and  the  practical, 
and  as  such,  Mr.  Holly's  "Modern  Dwellings"  com- 
mends itself  to  all  people  of  taste,  of  common-sense, 
and  to  all  friends  of  a  wise  and  timely  economy  in 
the  matter  of  house  building  or  ornamentation.  In 
brief,  it  is  an  indispensable  vade  mecum  to  every  one 
of  taste  who  would  build  a  house  or  adorn  a  home, 
and  has  neither  money  nor  time  to  throw  away  on 
the  meretricious  and  vulgar. — Christian  at  Work,  N.  Y. 

A  most  lovely  volume,  beautifully  illustrated,  and 
written  in  an  attractive  style  that  beguiles  the  reader 
on  from  page  to  page  without  letting  him  perceive 
what  a  profound  subject  he  is  reading  about.— Louis- 
ville Courier-Journal. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 


II  AErEE  &  Brothers  will  send  the  above  work  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States, 

on  receipt  of  the  price. 


VOLUME  57.  )    TT  TV  T  j  NEW  YORK, 

Number  339-  J    HARPER'S     IVlAGAZINE.  \    Aug.,  1878. 

WITH  the  June  Number  was  begun  the  Fifty-seventh  Volume  of  Harper's  Magazine.  For  the 
artistic  excellence,  as  for  the  number  of  its  illustrations,  Harper's  Magazine  is  unsurpassed. 
Each  Number  contains  Serial  and  short  Stories  from  the  best  writers  in  Europe  and  America,  contrib- 
uted expressly  for  Harper's  Magazine  ;  richly  illustrated  articles  of  Travel ;  carefully  prepared  papers 
of  a  Historical  and  Scientific  character,  a  large  number  of  which  are  profusely  illustrated ;  timely  articles 
upon  important  Current  Topics;  lighter  papers  upon  an  infinite  variety  of  subjects;  Poems  from  our 
most  brilliant  and  popular  writers;  and  five  Editorial  departments.  In  the  February  Number  were  be- 
gun two  new  Serial  Novels  by  William  Black  and  Thomas  Hardy.  Mr.  Black's  story,  "Macleod 
of  Dare,"  is  illustrated  by  Petti  e,  Millais,  Boughton,  and  other  first-class  English  artists. 

Published  Monthly,  with  profuse  Illustrations. 


VOLUME  ]  TT  \HT  (        For 

xx„.   \      Harper's  Weekly.      1   .878. 

HARPER'S  WEEKLY  is  an  illustrated  record  of  and  commentary  upon  the  events-of  the  times.  It 
will  treat  of  every  topic,  Political,  Historical,  Literary,  and  Scientific,  which  is  of  current  interest, 
and  will  give  the  finest  illustrations  that  can  be  obtained  from  every  available  source,  original  or  foreign. 
This  Journal  contains  more  reading-matter,  a  larger  number  of  Illustrations,  and  is  conspicuously  better 
edited  and  printed  than  any  other  Illustrated  Newspaper. 

The  Weekly  will  continue  to  present  literary  and  pictorial  attractions  unequalled  by  any  other  pub- 
lication of  a  similar  character.  Serial  and  short  Stories,  Poems,  and  Editorial  departments  furnish  every 
week  an  amount  of  reading-matter  unsurpassed  by  other  journals  in  excellence  and  variety.  An  at- 
tractive Serial  Story,  by  Miss  Braddon,  will  be  shortly  begun  in  its  columns. 

Published  Weekly,  with  pro/use  Illustrations. 


VOLUME)  T  T  T»  (For 

x..    \        Harper's  Bazar.       1   .878. 

HARPER'S  BAZAR  is  a  Journal  for  the  Home.  It  is  especially  devoted  to  all  subjects  pertaining 
to  Domestic  and  Social  Life.  It  furnishes  the  latest  Fashions  in  Dress  and  Ornament,  with  pat- 
terns;  describes  in-door  and  out-door  Amusements;  contains  Stories,  Essays,  and  Poems — every  thing, 
in  brief,  calculated  to  make  an  American  home  attractive. 

A  Serial  Story  of  thrilling  interest,  entitled  "All  or  Nothing,"  by  Mrs.  Cashel  Hg-ey,  was  recently 
begun  in  its  columns.  The  remarkable  Illustrated  Story,  "  A  Modern  Minister,"  is  also  in  course  of 
publication,  and  other  brilliant  novelties  are  forthcoming. 

Published  Weekly,  with  profuse  Illustrations. 


TERMS: 

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Harper's  Magazine,  Weekly,  and  Bazar,  to  one  address  for  one  year,  $10  oo;  or  two  <j/"  Harpers  periodicals,  to 
one  address  for  one  year,  $j  oo. 

dgp^  An  Extra  Copy  of  either  the  Magazine,  Weekly,  or  Bazar  will  be  supplied  gratis  for  every  Club  of  FIVE 
SUBSCRIBERS  at  $4  00  each,  in  one  remittance;  or  Six  Copies  for  $20  00. 

ADVERTISING  : — Tlie  extent  and  cliaracter  of  tlie  circulation  of  Harper's  Weekly  and  Bazar  render  them 
advantageous  mediums  for  advertising.  A  limited  number  of  suitable  advertisements  will  be  inserted  at  the  following 
rales :  in  the  Weekly,  Outside  Page,  $4  00  a  line ;  Inside  Pages,  $2  00  a  line.  In  tlie  Bazar,  $1  00.  a  line ;  Cuts  and 
display  charged  the  same  rates  for  space  occupied  as  solid  matter. 


BOUND   VOLUMES. 

Bound  Volumes  of  the  Magazine,  each  Volume  containing  the  Numbers  for  Six  Months,  will  be  fur- 
nished for  $3  00  per  Volume  in  cloth,  or  $5  25  in  half  calf,  sent  by  mail,  postage  paid.  A  complete 
Analytical  Index  of  the  first  fifty  volumes,  from  June,  1850,  to  May,  1875,  inclusive,  is  now  ready. 
Price,  cloth,  $3  00  ;  half  calf,  $5  25. 

Volumes  of  the  Weekly  or  Bazar,  bound  in  cloth,  each  containing  the  Numbers  for  a  Year,  will  be 
furnished  for  $7  00  each,  freight  (if  not  exceeding  one  dollar  a  volume)  paid  by  the  Publishers. 

There  are  56  volumes  of  the  Magazine,  21  volumes  of  the  Weekly,  and  10  volumes  of  the  Bazar  now  ready. 

Address:  HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 

Franklin.    Square,  New   Yor17 


